


A Spell for Dragons

by Skull_Bearer



Category: Pacific Rim (2013)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dragons, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Arranged Marriage, Dragonking!Newton, Dragonslayer!Hermann, Fantasy Politics, Iraya's AU, M/M, Magic, Mildly Dubious Consent
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-23
Updated: 2015-01-13
Packaged: 2018-01-20 13:38:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 38,327
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1512533
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skull_Bearer/pseuds/Skull_Bearer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Newton, the King of the Dragon Kingdom of the North, is ready to marry. Lars Gottlieb, King of the South, sends him his son as a bride; Hermann Gottlieb, young mage and dragonslayer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Masks

**Author's Note:**

> This is from Iraya's Arranged Marriage AU, influenced by Feriowind's wonderful drawings, and with a heavy infusion of Naomi Novik :)
> 
> Some minor consent issues inherent in the arranged marriage condition, but nothing trigger-worthy.
> 
> Beta read by the excellent Sherriaisling

The coach wheel kicks against a hole in the road and hot pain shoots up Hermann’s leg, jerking him out of the half-sleep he had fallen into. It is still early, a hushed, still morning with the mists still clinging to the pines outside the slatted window. The cold is like a knife, so early and this far north. Hermann can taste snow in his mouth, smell it in his nose, feel it in his lungs. He hugs into his cloak, trying to find comfort in the rich brocade meant more for decoration in the warm southlands than for protection against the late autumn chill of the northern mountains.

“Stop fidgeting.” His father does not look at him. “We're nearly there and I will not have you ruining your clothes.”

Hermann swallows, and the cold drops to his belly and does not thaw, sitting there in a lump of dull ice. He flexes his fingers and toes to try and work life back into them, and the motion pulls at the half knitted muscle of his upper thigh, raw and stiff from the long days of travel. Hermann tries to rub the ache away.

“Leave it!” Lars’ hand is a cold trap on his, slapping it away. “Don’t make yourself look any worse.”

Hermann grits his teeth and wishes, _wishes_ like anything that he could be outside now, with his brother and sister, riding with the honour guard. He’d had a horse, back south, a lovely dappled creature.  The gelding had liked him too, calling him every time he’d taken refuge in the stables. And riding; oh, how he had loved to ride, with the wind in his hair and the beat of the horse’s heart and hooves beneath him.

But that had been before. Before the dragon. Before the injury that had left him barely able to walk- let alone ride. Before.

“How far are we?” His father shouts and the noise makes Hermann cringe.

“We are coming on the northern border now, your Highness.”

Hermann swallows, and this time when he draws breath he tastes both snow and woodsmoke. Fear explodes inside him and the smoke turns to the scorched iron stink of dragonfire in his nose. Needles prick his eyes and Hermann turns his head quickly to hide any sign of his tears from his father.

The grey of the trees is broken now, the brief flash of fields and, here and there, the gaily flapping colours of tents and bunting. Pitched here, on the border between two lands. Hermann’s stomach revolves, empty and sick from the rocking of coach. It occurs to him that these trees, these copses and groves, are the last he will see of the land he was born in. Tomorrow, tonight, in an hour from now, or less, he will cross the border and belong to the Dragonlords. And he will not be allowed to go anywhere again without their permission.

Tears burn his eyes again; he tries not to blink. Tips his head back so he does not have to wipe his eyes, and let his father see.

The horns sound from the head of the procession, announcing their arrival. Hermann hugs his precious few possessions to his heart and shudders. The air smells of woodsmoke and horses.

But not dragons. Thank the gods, not that, not yet.

The coach rattles up, and stops in stalling jerks. The horses snort and stamp, and the coachman jumps down to steady them. The footman opens his father’s door and pulls down the steps. His father steps out.

Hermann hesitates, heart pounding, wanting nothing more than to freeze this horrible, awful moment forever and never move because he knows that when he does, everything will become worse, so unutterably worse that there are no words for it. He looks back, across the trees where the sky meets the endless rolling hills of the land that had been his home. And still was, for a handful of heartbeats more.

“Hermann!” He starts, and his father shakes him. “Move. Now!”

Getting up is almost impossible. His bones ache from the cold like an old man’s, and his leg is so stiff it barely supports his weight. He leans on the edge of the door and clambers out awkward as a spider, almost falling down the three steps to the frost-tipped grass.

He catches himself, leaning against the carriage, clutching the bag of his most precious possessions to his heart.

“Stand straight.” His father hisses. “Don’t lean on that thing, stand like a man!”

Hermann tries to straighten up. Locks his bad leg under him, stiff as rust. Raises his head.

Three men are looking at him. Three men; and a circle of watching servants, guards, men at arms. The first is tall, taller than Hermann, taller than Lars. Dark skinned like the men of the dawnlands across the sea, wearing the regalia of a general. His helmet glints gold, and he wears it like a crown. He doesn’t avert his gaze, and looks at them as though he were a king himself.

The second is shorter, but broader, dressed in rich furs and robes thick as armor; his beard is dark and shot through with silver, eyes darker, behind gold spectacles. They are narrowed in distrust. His hands are folded over his broad chest, and his fingers are heavy with rings. They chime as he taps them against each other.

And the third- the cold in his belly is back, solid and dead as a tumor. The third has no eyes, no face, no hands. His eyes are black pits in black iron, in the mask of a face crafted in the likeness of a dragon, smooth and swept back into horns. The head lifts, the unseen eyes rake over Hermann. He has no hands, but black iron claws, sharp as knives.

He will touch Hermann with these claws; these are the hands of his husband to be. Hermann’s scattered mind seizes on his old nurse’s tales, of the Dragonlords who stole children for their dragons to feed upon, who joined them in their feast, who lay with their monsters and brought forth abominations of half-breed children.

His teeth shake, his eyes burn, he looks, desperately at his father- gods, isn’t that a sign of his desperation, that he would turn to Lars for help? – but his father is not looking at him.

“Dragonking.” He jerks his head in acknowledgement. “Lord Illia and General Pentecost.” His tongue trips over the general‘s strange name. “My son.”

“King Lars.” Illia nods, he glances at Hermann, then away to where Dietrich and Karla are riding. His lip lifts in disgust at their honor of speared dragonskulls. “Your children.”

The Dragonking follows his gaze, the sun flickers through the morning mist and glints off the iron of the dragon’s head. Hermann wants to be sick.

“My son, as promised.” Lars doesn’t blink.

“Aye, your son.” He looks at Hermann, really looks at him. Three pairs of eyes, then all the eyes in the encampment. Hermann would run, if his body would allow him. He thinks of his books, in the bag he carries close to his chest, with the equations and rituals that would allow him to slip from sight, be overlooked and all but invisible.

“Come lad,” Illia beckons. “Let’s have a look at you.” Hermann hesitates, and his father pushes him forward a little harder than necessary. Hermann stumbles and catches himself, walking closer. The world bends in until it blurs into a tunnel, only those three men in focus. The ground rocks under his feet, threatening to buck him off.

Illia steadies him with a hand to his shoulder, looks him up and down, then nods. Hermann half expects the man to pull his lips back to check his teeth and eyes as though he were buying a horse. Although he suspects a horse like him would have been put down long ago.

Illia nods again, “Shall we begin?” Hermann waits for his father to answer, then realises the man is looking at him.

Hermann nods uncertainly. And Illia waves the servants over. Three girls, three boys, two pale, with hair like snow, two tanned and freckled, with hair like fire, and two dusky skinned, with hair like night. One of them has eyes of vivid green. Hermann remembers the burning emeralds of the dragon's eyes in the darkness of the cavern, and he wonders again about the tales of half-breeds.

They pull the pins from Hermann’s cloak, and lift it, light as snow falling, from his shoulders. The weight unpins him from the earth, and he cannot stop the tears, trying only not to sob so his father might hear. The servants hesitate, but Illia nods again, and they continue.

His hair is stripped bare of ornaments; his robes are untied from his wrists and left to hang loose. The knots holding it to his shoulders are untucked and undone, the robes slip down and when his belt is untied, they fall to his feet. Hermann swallows a lump the size of an egg in his throat.

A girl and a boy take the fallen robe, the belt, the cloak, and fold them carefully. They start on Hermann’s tunic. He shifts his grip on his bag from one arm to the other as they strip him, holding it close.

His tunic is taken, his undertunic, Hermann hugs himself and shivers, naked in the cold air but for his shift and smallclothes. The steaming tears on his face are chill now. They ache and freeze in his eyes.

The Dragonking leans over to Illia, saying something Hermann cannot hear. His voice is sharp and the set of his shoulders speak displeasure. Hermann stares at the ground, wondering how long this misery is to continue. He knows he is not much to look at. Then again, perhaps the Dragonking has changed his mind. Illia shakes his head and says something back, a refusal, and Hermann’s heart sinks again.

“Come, you will bathe in the tent, and we have your clothes waiting for you.” Illia starts away.

Hermann hesitates, and the girl closest to him tugs his arm lightly, “Come my lord,” she murmurs, her eyes are the green of fresh leaves, of deep green water. “The water will be cold if you wait. Leave your bag.”

“No.” Hermann hugs it protectively.

Illia turns back. “You will leave all of your possession before you cross the border.”

Hermann’s tongue withers, but he shakes his head. He had thought himself resigned to this but now- no. Not this. Losing this bag is like losing his heart. Losing more of his limbs.

General Pentecost steps forward and holds his hand out. “Give it here lad,” his voice is deep and resonant, no cruelty in it, “We will send it home with your family.”

Hermann’s jaw locks, his shakes his head harder. He knows he looks like a petulant child, but these things are _his_. Nothing else, not his clothes, not his horse, not even his beloved home was his in the way these books are.

“Hermann!” His father grabs his arm and tries to force the small bag from his hands. Hermann tightens his grip with both hands. He wavers, legs uncertain. The wrench, when his father pulls on the leather, almost takes him to his knees on the frosty ground. “Give it here you ridiculous _child_ -“

“For the love of the gods!” The voice is a new one, distorted by metal. They all, even Lars, freeze. “Here!” The Dragonking stamps over, all but shoves Lars out of the way. His heavy iron claws close on Hermann’s bag. “I’ll take this, and you can have it back after the ceremony.”

His face is inches from Hermann’s. He can see his own reflection in the oily sheen of the polished iron. His eyes are unseen, dark holes with something-some reflection, green light deep in the darkness.

Hermann remembers another dragon, its eyes bright and vivid green, its skull jagged and ridged, smoke coiling from its nostrils and fire from its jaws. He’d worn metal then, hauberk and shield and spear. He stands before this one in his shift and smallclothes, without even the knife he keeps at his belt.

The king’s claws are cold against his hands. That dragon's talons that had raked through his flesh had been burning hot.

Hermann lets go, and the Dragonking nods and steps back, holding Hermann’s precious bag, the last tie to who he is.

“My lord,” Illia breaks in, “the tradition states-“

“Oh, hang tradition. It’s just a bag; he can keep it if he wants.”

“That bag is the property of the southern lands.” Lars growls.

“Are you threatening annulment over such a cause?” Pentecost walks between them.

For a moment there’s silence, and Hermann wonders, madly, in that frozen second, if they are all going to draw their swords and kill each other; if his marriage will be the catalyst for the most terrible war in a thousand years.

Then Lars steps back, turns away in bad grace. The girl pulls Hermann, and he goes with her into the tent.

 

* * *

 

The tent has a fire in it, and warms when the flaps are tied shut. The water in the tub is lukewarm and Hermann starts shivering when he climbs in. The dark boy pours hot water over his head, and he and the red girl help Hermann strip off his soaked shift and smallclothes. At least they do not wash him, just step back and warm new pails over the fire as Hermann quickly soaps and cleans himself, rubbing the sweet soap in his hair and washing off the sweat and dust of travelling. The children pour the fresh hot water over him, and wash away the suds.

Hermann gets up, and they wrap him in thick towels, warmed from hanging over the fire. The smell of smoke works its way into the soft cotton, into Hermann’s hair and skin. He swallows.

The robes they dress him in are thicker than his old ones. Linen smallclothes and shift over soft suede pants, a tunic of woven rabbitskin, and robes of fur so white the clouds seem dirty in comparison. “What is this?” They feel like warm snowflakes in his hands.

“Foxfur, my lord.”The girl smiles. “From the northern wastes, they have such fine winter coats.”

Hermann looks at her uncertainly. In his father’s castle, no servant would dare speak to him like this. But it’s the first smile he’s seen in this place, and a friendly smile is worth any amount of insolence.

“Are you from the north?” He asks, unsure as to how to talk like this to a servant.

“Aye sir, from the northern wastes and the ice sea.”

“It sounds beautiful.” The fur is beautiful. It is also incredibly warm and Hermann starts to sweat in the close air of the tent. He slips his boots on, they reach mid-calf and are lined soft and ticklish with the same fur.

“It is. In the winter the ice is green, and the sky is so clear you can see the magic dance.”

“The magic?” Hermann starts, but the girl shakes her head and pushes him, very lightly to the opening on the opposite side of the tent.

The light is sharp after the darkness of the tent; the sun has risen above the mountains. His father, the Dragonking and their men are waiting for him. Karla and Dietrich must have stayed back with the coach.

Hermann can feel the eyes on him, but tries not to meet them, looking straight through the little procession as they walk to the altars. The Dragonking falls in step beside him. Hermann chances a glance at him; the Dragonking meets his gaze under his lowered helm. He moves his hand and pulls his cloak aside, and Hermann sees his bag slung under his arm. The Dragonking pats it lightly, and nods. Hermann looks away.

The altars have been raised, caskets and urns in place and strung with banners and honours. Hermann knows this part, it has been recited and drilled and repeated until he dreamt about it. He walks to the altar, up the steps to the caskets, and kneels, one hand on the bones of the unborn, one on the ashes of the dead.

Across from him, the Dragonking takes the same position, kneeling, one clawed hand on a casket, another on an urn. The carvings on the stone are different, but otherwise identical. The similarities warm Hermann a little, that something between them is not so different.

Then he wonders whose bones lie in the casket, if they opened it they would find no baby bones, only old scale and eggshell.

Illia walks up to stand behind the Dragonking, Lars comes to stand behind Hermann. He puts his hand on the back of Hermann’s neck.

“Now.”

They speak together. And the words are the same. Vows to honor, be faithful, protect and give and receive and be true and love from heart to mind to soul in the name of the unborn and the living and the dead.

“The unborn, the living, and the dead.” Hermann recites.

“The unborn, the living, and the dead.” The Dragonking’s voice intones. He lifts his head a little, and Hermann sees his eyes glint deep inside his helm when he looks at him.

“Your hands.” Hermann holds out his right hand, the Dragonking his left. The wedding cord is bound around their wrists.

“Stand.” Getting up is difficult, climbing down is harder, Hermann stumbles and might have fallen if the Dragonking hadn’t steadied him.

So, with that, it was done. He no longer belongs to his land, to his family, to himself. He belonged to this strange, cold place, and strange cold people, and a husband who might not even be human under his armor.

And the dragons. Always the dragons.

Hermann feels cold, so cold under his rich, warm furs. His leg aches as though the dragon’s claws were still lodged within it; he wonders what the king’s claws would feel like on his flesh.

“We are done here.” His father smiles. It’s thin and satisfied, the only smile Hermann has ever seen on his face.

“There is a feast,” Illia interjects.

“One I think we will not be present for. This errand has taken enough of my time, and my wife and kingdom require my presence.” He’s still smiling.

The silence is uncomfortable and Hermann stares at the ground, too ashamed to meet anyone’s eyes.

Lars looks around at them, smiling. He nods, and leaves. They all watch him leave. Hermann looks up when he hears the horses stamp on the other side of the tents. Between them, he sees Karla, she walks her horse up and down, and meets his eyes. She lifts a hand, raises her spear- tipped with a dragonskull- in salute. She’s carrying his trophy.

Hermann, numbly, waves back with a hand he doesn’t feel. This may be the last time he sees her. He never said farewell to Deitrich. He watches until the horses and their banners have disappeared, the coach’s wheels rattling into silence. He’s alone. He is alone among strangers, in an alien land, and he will never go home again.

The Dragonking touches his shoulder, the iron claws sinking into the soft white fur as though into snow. Hermann turns, lips trembling with barely withheld tears. “Here.” The Dragonking unslings his bag, and hands it to him.

Hermann hugs the bag to his chest, feels the weight of the books, the solidness of the parchment and leather. A tear slips free and he grits his teeth.

 

* * *

 

 

It takes the rest of the day to reach the Dragonking’s castle. Hermann doesn’t even see it until they are almost at the front gates. It looks as though it has grown from the mountain, black gleaming stone sharp as glass. It looks like ice, black ice, hanging from the mountain.

Hermann hunches himself further into his robes; so soft, so warm, as the coach rattles through the drawbridge. The horses’ hooves change from the clatter on stones to the snap of iron, they slip on the smooth black stone and the screech puts Hermann’s teeth on edge.

He doesn’t take in much of the interior, a blur of gleaming black, strung with tapestries, every footfall muffled by thick rugs and carpets. Soft furs for the most part, rougher than Hermann is used to, but warm. The entire building is warmer than it should be, for a mountain hold. Hermann runs his fingers under the collar of his robe, feeling sweat start to clump the fur.

The feast must have been a wonder. The marriage of two great kingdoms calls for nothing less, even if half the expected guests’ chairs are empty. Hermann remembers nothing of it. He sits beside his new husband, and eats food that tastes like ash. He drinks, it burns his mouth, and he chokes on the harsh liquor. The Dragonking touches his arm.

Hermann looks up. He is still wearing his helm, but has removed the lower guard to allow him to eat. The lower half of his face looks human, at least. “Take it easy. Here-” He hands Hermann a fresh cup. It tastes like spring ice, limes, honey and mint. Sweet and tart.

“Good huh?” Hermann can see just enough of the Dragonking’s face to see his smile. It’s bright and brilliant, and thaws the ice inside him, just a little. “Hey, it’s okay.” His voice is higher pitched without the helmet.

It’s not okay. Hermann wonders how mad the king must be to think this could in any fashion be okay. He looks down at his plate, and traps the words inside his mouth. It’s safer not to speak.

 

  
He cannot swallow the words. He cannot eat another mouthful. He no longer feels too warm in his furs. The castle is warm, heat from the torches and the fire in the centre of the great hall, heat that seems to radiate from the black walls. He does not feel warm. He feels cold. Cold as though he had been crafted from ice. His breath comes too fast, and he half expects it to frost the air.

He stares at his empty plate, swallows. The cold turns the spit to ice in his throat and he coughs, trying to stifle the sound and only coughing harder as a result. There’s a sudden silence in the hall and Hermann feels heat then, in his face. He ducks his head down and probably only serves to highlight the contrast between the white fur and his reddening face.

They look at him. They are all looking at him. Hermann wants the ground to swallow him down. The Dragonking is looking at him, his hand is a hairbreadth away from Hermann’s, so close Hermann can feel the hairs on his hand stand on end.

Ice. Ice. Hermann thinks of cold, the snow. Blinks and his eyes hurt. Better cold than to let the tears run free. He freezes the pain in his throat, the tears, the fear. Straightens his back and tries not to meet anyone’s eyes.

The iron claws touch his hand, just the tips, light as needlepoints. They scratch when Hermann pulls his hand away. Sweat, cold, almost frost, breaks out across his back.

This is his husband. The thought slips free despite his attempts to hold it back. He has married this- is he a man? Hermann does not know- a creature. Kin to the one he’d fought in the cave. That one he’d had to kill. This one he’d have to bed.

The shards of ice rise to his throat, freeze and pierce and choke him. The furs are soft where they should be hard, where they should protect him. He ought to be wearing armor; he ought to be holding a spear. Iron and magic in his hands. Not this, not fine cloth and furs like a tavern dancing boy. Not like this, please, by the gods, not like this.

He should eat. He should drink and eat and at least appear to enjoy himself, if only to postpone this. The Dragonking is looking at him, he has to see that he isn’t eating, but he says nothing. Hermann wants him to, doesn’t want him to. The moment stretches unbearably. He wants him; Hermann can see it, dragonfire hot in the unseen eyes, the grasping crawl of his taloned hands.

_I don’t want this. I don’t want to do this._ He wants to go home. He wants to go home so badly it hurts.

Illia leans over, looks between them. “It should be time, sire.”

The Dragonking looks at him, and shakes his head, very slightly.

He looks at them, again. “Waiting will not make this any easier.”

Hermann’s stomach twists, his heart kicks like a maddened horse against his ribs.

“Go on.”

 

* * *

 

  
They are followed up the stairs, but the guests, servants and nobles stop at their door. Their laughter stops too. The door is heavy oak, black as the stone. It looks hundreds of years old. Hermann notices it with the same dull emotion that notes that he should find it interesting, ask for the history of this place. He has no emotions to spare. They are all locked in the ice, lost under all that fear.

The Dragonking locks the door firmly, and Hermann wonders if it’s to keep unwelcome guests out, or to stop him from fleeing. The windows in the round tower room are overlook a sheer drop, and the fire in the open fireplace is blazing. He could not run even if he wanted to.

“Finally.” The Dragonking turns to him. He picks at the fastenings of his cloak, then groans. “I can’t ever get this off by myself.” The clawed hands pick at the thick layered scales of his forearms. Pulls and picks and finally something snaps free and the edges flap loose. The Dragonking pulls at the back of his wrist, and the claws come off. The entire, draconic gauntlet slides off, revealing a human hand.

It’s a hand like Hermann’s. Thicker in the palm, shorter in the fingers, slightly darker in tone. The Dragonking tosses the gauntlet to the table, and starts on the second. It comes off more easily, his fingers working deftly on the straps, as though he had done this a thousand times.

“Yeah, it’s stupid. But the Dragonking is supposed to look big and scary and scaly, and I- I don’t, I guess. So I have to wear all this metalwear to look the part.” The Dragonking's hands reach up and start unclipping the fastenings of his helmet. “Here, can you give me a hand with this?”

Hermann walks over, feeling dazed. The straps are cunning things, neatly hidden under the overlapping scales of the armor, and distributing the weight of the helmet more evenly across the shoulders. Hermann finds the catches and flicks them open, and the Dragonking brings both hands up to his face with a groan of relief.

“Finally! Gods, you have no idea how heavy that thing is.” The curve of the iron slides forward, the corona of horns coming up over the crown of the Dragonking’s head. His hair sticks up, freed of the confining metal. Dark brown, sweated into spikes and still furiously defying gravity. The disordered mess slips something free from Hermann’s heart, something tender and warm. He bites it down, tries to ice it over, flash-freeze it to nothing.

The helmet clinks beside the gauntlets, on the tabletop. The Dragonking turns around.

He’s short. It seems strange that he had not noticed, but the Dragonking is smaller than both his general and uncle. The helmet concealed that, with its horns and spines.

Without it, the Dragonking is inches shorter even than Hermann. Dark haired, face rounded with one of the brightest smiles Hermann has ever seen. This close, Hermann can see the faint freckles across the bridge of his nose and cheeks, the slight cleft of his chin.

And his eyes, such a vivid green. Dragon green. Hermann wonders if they glow in the dark, like those of the dragon he slew. For a moment, they are all he can see, green eyes, gleaming in the darkness, flicking with the flames within.

“Hey.” A hand on his. Hermann jerks back, away and nearly falls. He has been walking too long, his leg buckles and he drops down to sit on the bed.

The bed.

It is huge, big enough for four, furs and silks and cotton and embroidered hangings to keep in the heat. The featherbed dips under his weight.

“You okay?” The Dragonking unbuckles the breastplate, tosses his cloak over a chair. Under the armor he wears a simple jerkin, tunic and trousers. He kicks off his boots and he’s barefoot on the floor, feet sinking into the deep carpets. He’s even shorter like this, but solidly built and strong. Hermann is frail, with a useless leg and no strength in his body. His father had sent him to die against the dragon, and when he failed even at that, he’d sold him to them to be finished off.

“Is it your leg?” The Dragonking sits beside him, but doesn’t touch him.

Hermann nods, staring down and trying to rub away the ache that never seems to leave.

“I can call a healer, if you want. We have a good one in the castle, they might-“

“They will not.” Hermann’s voice comes out sharper than he means it, cutting off the flow of words. “It is an-old wound.” Three months old. “Nothing can be done.”

“Why don’t you use a stick? It’ll help you walk, and maybe your leg wouldn’t hurt so much-“

“My father didn’t want me to look like an old man.” Hermann breaks in and regrets it almost at once. He shouldn’t speak out of turn. Short as he is, his husband is still strong enough to hurt him very badly if Hermann angers him.

The Dragonking doesn’t seem to mind. “Maybe I can help.” He leans in, his hands are a sudden flash of heat than makes him start. He doesn’t move his hands, just resting them there, letting the warmth of his body soak through into Hermann’s leg, his blood boils with the sudden contact.

He ought to pull away. The Dragonking’s nails are short; it looks like he bites them. His eyes are so green; they bore into him, looking up at him through a thatch of dark hair. “What’s your name?” The words slip out before he’s even aware of them.

The Dragonking blinks. “Me? I’m Newton- Newt, if you can. I hate being called Newton.” He smiles, and his hands feel so warm. “I know yours, it’s Hermann, right?”

Hermann nods. Newton. He is beautiful, despite the strange name. Beautiful. Hermann wonders if it’ll hurt any less, being raped someone who is beautiful.

The ice shatters. Breaks. Melts. Tears pierce his eyes and his hand comes up to catch the sob that’s fighting its way out. He screws his eyes shut and doesn’t know if he should pull away from Newton’s hand or just- let him. Close his eyes and let him and hope it will be over soon. His throat contracts, and the muffled cry rakes his windpipe, tears running in hot lines down his face.

And then- warmth. The Dragonking is so warm, he puts his arms around him and holds him, Hermann can feel the tight cords of his muscles, the solid mass of his chest. He presses his face into the cloth, inhales the scent of worn leather and heat, and tries to choke back the tears.

“Shh, it’s okay. It’s okay.” Hermann can feel the words more than hear them, deep in the Dragonking’s chest. His hands rub circles around Hermann's shoulders, massaging the heat deep into his frozen bones. “Don’t cry, please don’t.”

Hermann draws in a breath, holds it, and pulls back. His hands are shaking; he can feel the muscles in his back tremble and ache.

“It’s okay.” Newton murmurs in his ear. “We don't have to do anything, if that's what's scaring you.”

“We have to.” No point pretending he has a choice in this, no matter how Newton wants to dress it. An unconsumated marriage can be annulled, and neither side are willing to run that risk. His fingers fumble with the fastenings on his new robes. They are strange to his hands, where his tailors used laces, here they have metal hooks that slot and hold. He undoes them carefully, one by one.

“Don’t.” The Dragonking’s hand touches his. “You don’t have to.”

Hermann ignores him, grits his teeth. _Do it. Do it and get it over with. You can spend the rest of your life trying to forget it, but just let it be over_. He shrugs the cloak off, the robes; they fall down to his waist. The air is shockingly cold after the insulation of the furs, a thousand needles across his chest and back. He turns his back on the Dragonking, hands fumbling with his belt.

The hand on his back is a rush of heat, almost painful after the cold. Newton’s finger trace over the ridges of his shoulderblades, stroke down the knobs of his backbones, across along his ribs.

“Please.” It sounds pained. Hermann ignores him. He leans against the bed and props himself up. The belt falls to the floor, along with his robes and cloak. Hermann toes off his boots, and rolls over back on the bed. The blankets and sheets and furs are scented with lavender. Hermann draws in one sweet breath and holds it. _Please, let it be quick. Please, just get it over with. Please._

Instead, he’s rolled to the side, as the coverings are pulled out from under him. Hermann tries to get his hands out, and they tangle in sheets and featherbed. The coverings are folded over him, heavy and snug from having been warmed.

He looks up, and the Dragonking looks back, one hand smoothing the covers around the curve of Hermann’s shoulder.

“It’s okay. It’s okay, I promise. Don’t be scared.”

He shucks off his clothes, shirt, trousers, down to his smallclothes. His body is a riot of colour. Hermann thinks it's the fire playing tricks on tired eyes but no. Hermann remembers a sailor he saw once, on a court trip to the coast. The man was from the Dawnland Isles, and his body was marked all over, like this. But that man's art had been simple, black on brown skin, and this is such a mess of detail and vivid hues that it takes Hermann to make out what they are depicting.

Dragons. They crawl over Newton’s body in boiling, roiling chaos. They claw up his arms, across his shoulders, down his legs. There doesn't seem to be any part of his new husband that hasn't been marked.

His body goes utterly cold, his leg aches with dead fire. The Dragonking stretches and the design on his back- a terrible blue monster, jaws agape and wings outflung- seems to undulate, suddenly alive.

The Dragonking turns around, and sees him staring. He looks as though about to speak, then changes him mind. Hermann shivers as the blankets are pulled back, a finger of cold inserting itself against his body. Newton lies down next to him, a sudden blush of warmth, the heat of his body like a forge-fire. The blankets cover the dragons coiled around him, and Hermann can breathe again.

Hermann looks at him, both of their heads on the same pillow, their faces are so close together that they almost breathe each other’s air. Newton’s mouth looks soft, young, used to smiles. He is beautiful, and warm, warmer than the castle stones, warmer than the fire.

Newton smiles. His eyes crinkle, fine lines that make his eyes dance, the green shimmer. His hand covers Hermann’s. Smaller, warmer. Hermann feels like a skeleton in comparison, all sharp edges and cold bones. And scars, down his leg.

Newton shifts a little closer, his shoulder brushes Hermann’s. “God, you’re beautiful. You know that right?” Very gently, as though trying not to scare him, he reaches out, and brushes a strand of Hermann's hair out of his face.  
Hermann closes his eyes. Suddenly, he’s sick of being so cold. He wants- Hermann isn’t sure what he wants. He wants to be warm. He wants to stop being afraid. He wants to be closer, to strip them both down and press them together and take some of that wonderful, sweet heat for himself. Warm himself, for once in his life.

Will it hurt, if he does this? If he willingly participates? He wouldn't have to be held down and hurt. It might even feel good. He could close his eyes so as not to see the tattoos, pretend he was somewhere else, somewhere not here.

Hermann tries not to think, to imagine what his father would say seeing him considering this. To face this degredation compliant and willing, and part of him rejoices in it. Let him disgrace them, let him whore himself, if this is what feels good. Let him spread his legs and beg, if he wants. They sent him here to die, what loyalty does he owe them?

But the rest of him remembers the dragon, its mad, gleaming eyes and the pain that split him down to the marrow. The tattoos of the same monsters all over his new husband's body. The thousand monstrous stories of this twisted kingdom. And what if this is a trap; to lull him and put him at ease in order to- to- Hermann doesn’t know.

“It’s okay.” Newton rests his hand on the pillow, palm up. An invitation. Hermann can see the beginnings of a head wrapping around Newton's wrist and disappearing under the blankets. "I won't hurt you."

Hermann lifts his hand, hesitates and traces the outline of the dragon head. The skin is very slightly raised from the ink, and this close Hermann can see the fine hairs on Newton's skin, the tiny irregularities in the ink and shade. The barely banked terror recedes, and he relaxes, just a little.

"That was Yamarashi." Newton's voice is very soft. "Do you- I can tell you about her, if you want."

His eyes shine at the thought, in a sort of innocent pleasure that's obscene given the subject matter. Hermann shakes his head and it hurts to see the eager look turn to disappointment, like denying a child some harmless and dearly awaited joy.

Instead, he slides his hand up and slips it into the welcome warmth of Newton’s. He smiles again, and it’s brighter and more brilliant than any Hermann has seen so far. He smiles so much. He wonders what he has to be happy about in this place.

The warmth bleeds into him, into his hand, up his arm and into his body. Newton shifts closer and Hermann finds he doesn’t mind. Closes his eyes and feels the heat of that body, that _warmth_ so close, such a relief in muscles grown taut from cold.

“Is this good?” Newton breathes. As though Hermann is a skittish animal he doesn’t want to frighten.

It is good, he doesn’t want it to be, but it is. Newton’s fingers curl into the hollow of his palm and rest there, stroking the softer skin. So light, and it sends shocks like tiny lightning bolts down his spine. “Is this good?”

Yes. Yes, and Hermann tries to speak and the words fail. This should not be this good. This should be terrible. This man, with his armor and title and horrible, terrifying tattoos, should be cruel, not kind. Hermann should be frightened and in pain, in this alien, monstrous place. The feeling of wrongness is somehow worse than the pain would be.

Newton’s thumb moves to the curve of his wrist, and the shocks build until he’s shivering. The heat pools in his belly, between his legs, and his breath stutters, comes faster.

“Is this good?” Newt whispers. He’s so close. Hermann soaks in the heat of his body.

“Yes.” The words escape in a breath. The word scratches his dry throat, tastes like treason.

“Can I kiss you?”

Hermann catches his breath, but the words do not come. Newton hesitates, “Or not, if you don’t want to. I don’t want-“ Hermann leans in before he has time to think about it.

Newton’s mouth tastes of limes and mint, and spice from the feast. Kissing him feels like swallowing fireworks, sweet and scorching on his tongue. Newt gives a startled hum of surprise, which deepens into a satisfied mumble.

It’s like curling up beside the fireplace after a winter’s walk, like sinking into a warm bath after going through ice. Newton smells of pinewood fires and worn leather from his armor, tastes of spring thaw and sunshine. Hermann reaches out with his free hand, and his fingers find soft skin, the curve of a bicep, tracing up over the shoulder to the lightly-furred chest, everywhere the ridged irregularities of ink, rendered meaningless and harmless by touch. Hermann traces them and Newton shivers under his hand, murmurs against his lips.

Newton’s mouth slips from his, and brushes across his jaw, under his chin and along his neck until Hermann feels a whine escape his throat. And it feels good, it feels _so good_. Sweet like spiced honey running down his throat. Burning like liquid flame in every vein of his body, pooling down between his legs. He can taste fire in the back of his throat.

His smallclothes are suddenly too restrictive. His cock aches hot and tight, trapped against Newton’s thigh. He feels Newton's laugh against his neck, he closes his eyes, the twin points of contact on neck and wrist turn his skin liquid, every motion, reverberation, touch, sending ripples through and through him.

“That feels good?” The vibrations of Newton’s words make his cock jump. It tears a soft, broken sound from Hermann’s throat. “Hey,” Hermann blinks his eyes open. Newton is smiling down at him, soft and gentle and utterly brilliant. His eyes are so green, like forest pools.

“You, uh, want a hand with that?”

His hand brushes the front of Hermann’s smallclothes and Hermann _jumps_ , the contact like a lightning bolt against his raw skin.

Newton _grins_ , Hermann couldn’t think that smile could get any wider, but it does. He nods. Doesn’t think of what his father would think, what this would look to his family, what a _whore_ he would look like, legs spread and _begging_ -

Newton’s hand skates over his covered cock again. He cups him through the cloth, hand so gentle against Hermann’s most tender parts and he hisses desperately, wanting- just _wanting_ , overriding thought and emotion to the point he does not know what he wants, just that it is more of this, more, and _more_. Things he does not know and has not dared to want, as the second son, the third child, destined to be wedded off and to keep himself ready for that day.

“Here.” Newton lets go of him and Hermann whines deep in his throat, legs apart and hips jerking. Newton chuckles, a sweet sound, and unties his smallclothes, loosening them enough to get a hand inside and pull them down to his thighs.

“Gods, you’re lovely.” Newton whispers, he moves until he’s crouched over Hermann. One leg slips and he drops to bump into him, a hot, living weight, damp with sweat and cock rock-hard against Hermann’s hip.

Hermann blinks, and Newton’s smile is just a little self-conscious. “Yeah, well, I said you’re hot.”

Hermann nods, uncertain, disbelieving. Newton wraps his hand around him and starts to stroke, warm, hot and steady, just hard enough to coax the almost unbearable ache into a full-blown blaze. He shivers. Newton kisses him. Sweet and delicious, one hand braced above his head to keep himself up, legs braced on either side of Hermann’s, just close enough to brush against his, the inside of Newton’s thigh touches the half-healed wound on Hermann’s. There’s no pain, not enough pressure, but the hyper-sensitive skin trembles at the contact.

Newton’s hand strokes him twice more, relaxes and drops to cup his balls. Finger touch so light it almost tickles at first, then tightening until Hermann moans, until it’s just hard enough, just sweet enough, and he thinks he’s going to burst at just how _good_ it feels. Newton’s fingers are rough and calloused, too tough for a noble’s hands, and for a moment Hermann can pretend that he isn’t here, that he hasn’t been sold, that Newton is someone he met in his father’s castle, that he’s decided to break his mandated abstinence and spend a night with this strange, beautiful man.

The kiss trails across his cheek to under his ear. Newton pops the lobe of his ear into his mouth and _sucks_ , Hermann jerks his hips up into his hand, and gasps, the air sudden and cold and he hadn’t even realised he was holding his breath-

Newton’s hand reaches back up to grasp his cock, and begins to work with purpose, regular hard thrusts as he nibbles on his ear, lets it slip from his mouth to suck love bites into the side of Hermann’s neck. Hermann throws his head back, almost cracking it against Newton’s, fights to catch his breath and arches his back until the knotted muscles of his leg and flank _burn_ , as though someone had pressed a hot poker in a single line along his side.

He collapses, gasps, pants, feels tears sting his eyes because it feels _good_ and it hurts and it should not be feeling this good. He’d prided himself on this, hadn’t he, on being above this, on burying everything he was in his books, in his magic. In not feeling. In putting no value in the physical. He’d known this would be his future, and he had not dared hope it would be enjoyable.

He shivers. The hair on his body stands on end, feels twice as much where Newton brushes against it. His hand strokes up and down on his cock, down, then up, and Newton rubs a thumb over the head, and Hermann comes. He comes hard and so sudden it takes his breath away and he chokes on air, then doubles over coughing. His head bangs into Newton’s, who starts back with a yelp.

Hermann tries to apologise, but he can’t catch his breath. Newton drops back next to him, propped on one elbow, and rubbing his head with his spare hand. Hermann rolls over, the sheet sticking to him uncomfortably, wet with his own seed. He coughs, hard, and Newton rubs his back.

The pain in his throat finally eases, and Hermann turns on his back to look at Newton. His forehead is turning red along one side where Hermann headbutted him, but he’s smiling.

Hermann swallows. “I’m sorry.” He touches the bruising. It will be a livid purple by tomorrow.

Newton shrugs, and smiles. He settles in next to him. “It’s okay. You liked that?”

Yes, oh gods yes. He nods.

“Great.” His smile shrinks a little, becomes shy. “If you want to, uh, do it again, then I would be- really happy. Because that was awesome, and you were really – uh, hot, and I really would like to- but only if you want to because- uh, if you don't that's fine-“ He swallows, and seems to will himself to shut up.

“Don’t we-“ Hermann’s voice breaks, he swallows; “Didn’t we have to-“

“You made kinda a mess of the sheets.” Newton grins.

Hermann looks down at the bunched, damp tangle around his legs. Proof of consummation. “That was it?” He looks at Newton, who shrugs. This was it. Everything he had been so frightened of. He doesn’t dare to believe it. “What about you?”

Newton looks down at himself, his smallclothes are off, and his cock is hard against his thigh. “I can take care of that myself, if you want to sleep.”

Hermann settles next to him; he’s warm, soft around the belly. He is not at all frightening now. He rests a hand on Newton's chest, feeling the heat of his body, the slow expand and contract of his breathing. The ribs standing out stark for a moment, before becoming only suggestions under the inked skin. He traces the lines, and Newton shivers.

"Oh, that feels good, you're really-" He breaks off as Hermann's hand skates down to coast over the curve of his stomach.

He is so warm there, as though he spends all his time lying in the sun like a cat. His breathing is unsteady, trying to be quiet and failing as his breath comes in starts and gulps. Hermann wonders if Newton is afraid he'd scare him away if he made too much noise.

His hand traces the contours of Newton's hipbones and his husband gives a strangled sound, a sort of sob that makes Hermann pause. "Is this good?" He should have asked before. He had not considered that is husband might feel as coerced to do this as he had.

He shouldn't have worried; Newton gives a stuttering laugh and rolls his head over to look at him. "That's _amazing_ , just- come on, please, I just want-"

He chokes off, Hermann pressed down, very gently, on the v of skin just above his cock, tracing fingers through the first crisp curls there. Another ragged gasp, and he wraps his hand around Newton's cock. He arches up, head thrown back and almost hitting Hermann in the jaw. " _Fuck_ \- gods- yes-"

It's encouraging. He strokes him at first tentatively, then more confidently. It's not unlike touching himself those times his body has had its own ideas about what it needed and he had to work out the tension by himself.

He wonders if this was how he looked, head tilted back, mouth open as though drowning, hands knotted in the sheets, hips canted up and legs bent and spread open. He can feel the muscles in Newton's legs clench tight and taut as cables, trembling. The head of his cock is wet, slicking his hand and making it slide more easily.

Newton gives another, shakier laugh, and grins at him. Hermann feels himself smile back. He leans in tentatively, and kisses him lightly. When Newton tries to kiss back he moves away and touches lips to his forehead instead. He tastes of salt and woodsmoke. His mouth finds the hollow of a temple and lingers there, feeling Newton's rapid pulse against his tongue.

He maps the skin with lips and tongue, while Newton murmurs and gasps and shakes under him as though about to come apart. Then, with a final hoarse shout, he does. His body snaps taut and his hips jerk up and he comes hot and wet and sudden across Hermann's hand.

Hermann struggles to keep back a grimace. He always hated this part. It's always so- so _messy_. He shakes the worst of it off, and wipes the rest on the sheets. He tries to hide his expression, but Newton must have seen it, because he laughs."We're s'pposed to make a mess, r'member?" He slurs, eyes only half open. He looks slaked and exhausted. "Consummation, and all that." He closes his eyes.

Hermann wonders if he's fallen asleep. The candles have burnt down and the fire is dying. He settles beside Newton and tries to kick the wedding sheet away. He's not looking forward to waking sticky and disgusting in the morning.

"That was great." Newton breathes. He sounds barely awake. "Thanks."

And it dawns, a little belatedly, that this was his wedding night. This was the nightmare his life had been counting down to for all these years. And it had been- good. Pleasant. Even- fun, by the end.

"Thank you." He whispers to Newt, but he's too late, his husband is already asleep.


	2. Feathers

Newt wakes wondering if he fell asleep in the kitchen again. His room is never this warm. But the ground is a lot softer than it should be, and it’s a lot quieter than the kitchen, even in the middle of the night. Someone snuffles in his ear, and that is most definitely not the cook.

The light, when he cranks an eye open, is like a shot of pain to his hindbrain. The shutters are open, the sun rising over the distant mountains and slanting into the room in rainbow streaks through the glass. The room is frigid, but the bed is warm. Newt shuffles back, ducking under the blankets and huddling close. He bumps into Hermann’s tangle of limbs; an out-thrown leg, one arm curled protectively around his head. He murmurs something incoherent, and leans in, his arm sliding around Newt’s neck, leg nudging between his.

Newt holds his breath, trying not to wake his new husband. Hermann is so relaxed- all long limbs and slack muscles. So unlike the taut, terrified boy of last night. Newt cranes his head over to snatch a look at his face, lines of fear and stress gone, gorgeous broad mouth slack, impossibly long lashes printing fine dark lines across his cheeks.

He’s lovely. Newt had felt his heart jump when he’d seen him yesterday- yes, it is pathetic to be so relieved your husband is hot- until he’d seen how scared he was. Then it hadn’t been hot, or romantic, or anything but vaguely nauseating; watching his husband-to-be try, and fail, not to cry as they stripped him.

He’d wanted to calm him, to make him see it was okay, that Newt wasn’t going to hurt him, was going to keep him safe from whatever he was so frightened of. Newt hesitates, wanting to kiss him, but the image of Hermann’s face doesn’t leave him; trying not to shed tears, trying not to look scared, just wanting it to be over.

Newton never wants anyone to look at him like that again in his life. So instead he untangles himself carefully from Hermann’s limbs and rolls out of bed. The floor is freezing under his feet and Newt hisses, hopping from one rug to the other until he finds his boots.

It’s a shock how cold the castle is now, with something like a third of the staff not here. The residual warmth from yesterday is gone, and they’re going to have another week of this. Newt finds his pants and tries to pull them on over his boots, they tangle and he overbalances and thumps against the wall, swearing under his breath.

He works the trousers over his boots, pulls the drawstrings and ties them. He hesitates over finding a tunic, but Hermann murmurs and he wants to get this done before he can wake up.

He regrets it almost instantly. The cold is even worse in the corridor. Newt rubs the chill out of his arms and hurries down the stairs.

The kitchen is warmer, at least. It’s closer to the bedrock and the heat of the mountain. There are only a handful of staff inside, and the place yawns around him, impossibly huge without the cook present. One of the undercooks sends him a barely hidden glare. Newton ignores her and starts working.

He’s halfway through whisking the eggs when- “Newton.”

Fuck. One of the cooks must have told his uncle. “Yeah, yeah, I know.”

Illia is in his best robes, ermine trimmed and a glowing red that makes him look rather like the setting sun. “What are you doing?” He sounds too tired for this time of the morning. “What happened to your face?”

“Nothing, and I’m cooking breakfast.” He doesn’t look up as he adds the milk.

“We do have servants for that.”

“Servants who hate me for giving a third of them the week off.”

“They don’t hate you.”

No. They don’t. It makes it worse. “They’d still burn the pancakes.”

Illia doesn’t refute him. “Instead you run around like this, doing-“ He waves a hand over the batter mix –“how do you think that looks to them, with your face like this?”

Newt grits his teeth and beats in the flour with maybe too much energy. “I’m trying to make this work, make it easier on-“

“That boy is a murderer. You remember that, Newton?”

His shoulders tense, “I don’t believe that.”

“You’re not an idiot, Newton-“ He hates that name -“You saw the skulls. Every one of those people has a death to their name, and that one’s no different.”

He can’t believe that, it’s insane. He can see someone maybe pretending to be dead for Hermann in the sort of ‘hit me with a sword and I roll over and pretend gruesome death’ because seriously, if you were striking as that, a smile would get you everywhere. He shakes his head.

“Newton.” He leans against the table, crosses his arms. “This peace only lasts while both of you are still alive. We need the breathing room; they have every interest in making this as short as possible.”

Gods, he’s insane. “Hermann’s not an assassin.”

“Do you think assassins dress in black, are always armed and skulk in shadows?”

Newt stares at the batter, then picks up the bowl, butter and a pan. He’ll do this in his fireplace. This is getting stupid.

“Or would they come across as someone who did not look like a threat? Look scared, vulnerable, so you’d feel sorry for them and let down your guard, maybe not to kill you, but to spy on us?”

Newt licks the spoon clean. “You’re just angry because the cook won’t be there to make your favourite roast.”

“You are isolating yourself, and putting us all in danger.” Newt makes for the door.

“My mother said-“

“That doesn’t mean you should go into battle without mail-“ Newt finally gets to the stairs, and Illia is drowned out by the rattle of his footfalls.

Hermann is still asleep when he comes in. Newt stokes up the fire, reviving the embers and setting the pan down on them. The butter goes into the pan, and the batter- fuck-

Which is why when his new husband wakes up, he finds Newt trying to spoon out batter with his sword. “What are you doing?” He’s trying to squint through the light and frown at the same time and it’s awesome.

“Pancakes. Breakfast.”

He sits up, all sleek white skin, and rubs his eyes. Newt swallows and tries not to look. He tries.

Hermann walks over and settles next to him. He’s grabbed Newt’s cloak and wrapped it around himself. He rubs his eyes, “Is there water?”

“Jug over there.”

He’s limping rather more than yesterday. Newt needs to find him something to lean on. He comes back with the jug and folds himself awkwardly beside him.

“Why are you doing this?”

“Don’t you like pancakes?” If not, then this morning is ruined.

“Yes, but-“ He waves a hand, then rubs his eyes. “Don’t you have- people for that?”

“Hey, I can cook.” Pancake one is ready. Newt flips it with his sword, scores a white line across the black iron, and realises he’s forgotten plates. “Eat.”

Hermann looks around for a plate, down at the pancake. Newt rolls his eyes. “Eat it, it’ll burn.”

Hermann picks it up carefully and nibbles a little. He swallows, then bites in. Newt grins. “I’ve got butter.”

Hermann swallows. “Are you going to use your sword for that too?”

Newt shrugs. He cuts a chunk off and drops it on the pancake. Hermann folds the pancake around it, and eats it.

“Another?”

Hermann looks at his hands and around for something to wipe them on. “Just use my cloak.”

The expression he gets is hard to describe. Newt eats his own pancake. It should have more honey, but he’s not going back down there.

“Do you have- breakfast, here?” Hermann takes the next pancake without prompting, and spreads the butter with his fingers as though he was picking up a dead mouse.

“Yeah well, the cook’s off, so it’s not going to be great, so I thought I’d cook and- this would be- nice?”

Hermann looks at him. His eyes flicker, his mouth twitches. For a horrible moment, Newt thinks he might cry; which would be the worst reaction to his pancakes since his mother spat out his first attempt and reminded him to shell the eggs first. Hermann doesn’t cry or spit anything; instead his face goes soft, all the lines fading from his mouth, and he moves to sit a little closer.

Newt looks at him, the butter going black and smoking in the pan. Hermann leans over, and his lips trace light as butterfly wings over the slight stubble on his cheek. Newt isn’t aware he’s smiling until his face starts to ache. He turns and tries to scrape out the pan with his sword.

The next pancake has burnt crusty bits in it, so Newt eats it. Hermann pokes the fire, stirring it up and reviving the embers. It’s quiet. It’s a lovely quiet.

“We have servants for this.” Hermann speaks so suddenly, he almost makes him jump. Newt looks at him. “This-“ He waves at the fire, the pancakes. “Cooking, the fire, everything.”

“In your room when you’re sleeping? How does anyone have sex when anyone might-“ Newt waves between the door and the bed.

“It’s-“ Hermann looks at his hands, smiles a little. “Would that stop you?”

Newt chokes on a hard chunk of butter. “No! Um, yes? Maybe? If you want? They seriously watch?”

“Well, they can’t watch, they have to work-“ He breaks off, Newton isn’t sure what his face looks like right now, but it must be interesting. “It- it was expected.”

“Not to have any privacy?”

“It was different.” Hermann eats the next pancake out of the pan. “We had to be- bathed, dressed. It was- ceremonial.”

“It sounds-“ Newt bites off whatever he was going to say. He’s not sure what it was, but it wasn’t going to be good. “Well, it’s not like that here.” Thank the gods. He’d had enough trouble living indoors. His father had spent half of that first year dragging him from the hatcheries. “Maybe I could show you?”

“Shouldn’t you have... duties? As a king. It’s expected.”

Newt shrugs. “My uncle’s taking them over for the week, so we have time to- get used to this.” Hermann looks at his hands. “Hey, it’s fine. He- does most of this anyway. I just stand around with the armor and look scary.” The helmet is lying on the floor accusingly. Newt deliberately doesn’t meet its eyes. “They could prop it up the hall and I could go and do something useful and the end result would be the same.”

Hermann looks at him, and Newt wishes he was better at reading faces, because that clearly means something. It doesn’t look bad, at least.

“So they’re giving me the week off.” Newt concludes. “Thanks.”

“So glad this marriage is making you happy.” But he’s smiling, just a little. “What do we do?” Hermann licks his fingers clean, at his hands as though realising what he’s doing, and pretends he hasn’t.

“Um, get you dressed.” Or not. Dear Gods. “Then, I don’t know, maybe I could show you around?”

“Can we call for a bath?” Hermann looks at his sticky hands. Newt tries not to think of licking them clean. Hermann has the loveliest hands he’s seen- possibly ever. All long and slender, the sort of hands you could see playing a harp or flute, or painting.

Not killing someone.

Newt closes his eyes, and tries to shove that thought away.

Hermann is looking at him. “Right. Water. Um, we’ll have to- go down for that.”

“You don’t have staff to do that?”

“Usually we do.” Newt tries to smile. This is awkward. “But not everyone is here- it’s complicated. I’ll show you the baths, they’re pretty good.”

They get dressed, and Hermann leans on his arm to balance himself down the stairs. Newton reminds himself to ask one of the blacksmiths to make him something to lean on, then remembers that two of the blacksmiths are gone, and the ones there are going to be too busy to take on work, particularly this work. He’ll have to see what he can find.

It’s a long way down. Hermann stumbles suddenly, and Newt helps him down to sit on a step. “You okay?”

Hermann shakes his head, fingers digging into the flesh of his thigh. His shoulders tense and narrow. “My leg is-weakened, I walked too far yesterday.”

“Hey, we can wait.”

He wonders what Hermann thinks of the baths. Someone must have seen them coming, because the baths are empty. They all but echo, steam rising in spirals to the rough walls of the caves. Hermann hesitates. He waits until Newt has shrugged off his clothes and gotten in before he joins him, sliding carefully into the hot, faintly off-smelling water. His eyes close slowly. "This is nice." He sounds surprised.

"We have hot springs under the castle." Newt explains, swimming a few strokes to settle next to Hermann on the carved steps. "It smells weird, but it's safe."

Hermann hums and kneads at his thigh. Newt can see the damage even through the water. It looks as though someone's sunk their talons in the muscles and torn. The skin is pink with scar tissue in knotted layers where his body has tried to knit itself back together.

Newt doesn't want to ask. He doesn't want to look. His eyes are dragged back to it anyway. The cuts aren't huge, although they are deep. A youth then- an adult would have taken his leg off entirely- a child, scared and panicked-

Newton can't think about it. His limbs feel faint and his stomach weighs heavy, as though the pancakes may make a reappearance. It's grotesque, the idea- the concept- everything rebels against it-

No. It's not true. He won't believe it. It's not possible and that's the end of it. There is another explanation. Maybe one day he might dare ask about it.

Hermann is looking at him, at the tattoos mapping his body. His eyes dart from one to the other, then away, then back, as though he doesn’t want to be caught looking. Newt catches his eyes, and smiles. Hermann looks down at his hands.

“That’s Otachi.” He touches the curve of his shoulder. The outspread wings arch broad and bright across his back. “I lived with her and Mom until I was seven.”

Hermann touches the spiral of Otachi’s body, down his neck and along his spine. Newt shivers happily, the touch is so light it feels feathered. “Did they hurt?”

“What?” Newt blinks. “Yeah, a bit. That was the first one I got. It reminded me-“ of home. More than ten years here, and it’s still home. He sleeps and dreams of the wind through the mountains, the slow shift of wings and scale, like eroding glaciers. Kodachi in his egg.

Newt swallows. Hermann draws his hand away quickly. “Are you hurt, did that-“

“I’m fine.” The gulf in his chest opens wide enough to fall into. Kodachi is off with the rest of them, and it’ll be a week before Newt sees him again.

“You could- tell me about them.” Newt looks at him. Hermann is pale, not looking at him. “I have never- seen these- breeds before, perhaps you could-“

“No.” Newt touches his hand and it’s like trying to bridge a ravine, with nothing but their bare hands. “It’s okay.”

“Do you want me to show you around?”

* * *

They avoid the kitchens. Hermann leans on his arm as they climb the stairs. “My uncle is using the council rooms, but we can go into the throne room if you want.”

The throne room is closed for the week. Newt isn’t appearing, and Illia doesn’t need the space. Also, maybe they can find something behind the throne to serve as a cane for Hermann.

The room is darker than Newt is used to. Usually they have the flame-bearers and torches up, but of course no one’s here. The only light comes from skylights. The room is scarily still. Newt has never seen it so quiet. Normally it’s barely restrained mayhem.

Newt climbs the stairs and starts digging through the piles. Most of it is too small or far too heavy. Newt tosses a decorative sword out of the way. There’s a sceptre that might serve, but the spikes are a bit off-putting. “You see anything?” Hermann hasn’t moved, he’s staring at the hoard. “What?”

“What is this?” He breathes.

“What?” Newt looks behind him. “Oh, it’s just for show. There should be something you can use. Help me look.”

Hermann walks dreamily towards the piles of gold and jewels. He picks through the first few layers. “It’s mostly gold down there, the coins slide down. The big stuff’s up here.”

He climbs uncomfortably up the steps. He picks up a halberd. “Don’t. The head’s made of gold; it bends if you even look at it.”

There! Newt finds it. He hands the staff over. It’s ancient polished oak, intergrown with chunks of raw quartz. It’s nice, a bit less showy than most of junk here.

Hermann takes it uncertainly. “This is a mage’s staff.”

Newt laughs. “I wish! No, it just looks like one. That's all this is, it’s just there to look impressive.”

Hermann glances around him, he looks dazed. “It is.”

Newt sits on the arm of his throne. “Is it okay?”

Hermann leans on the staff, hesitantly at first, then more comfortably, he shifts his weight, and takes a few steps up and down. It’s awkward, but the pressure’s off his bad leg. “Thank you.”

“If you’re sure, we can look for something else if-“

“No!” He stops. “No,” Hermann smiles a little. “This is fine.”

They run into Illia outside the throne room. Hermann starts. Newt hadn’t noticed how much his body had eased, relaxing into the space between them and into the solid support of the staff. The tension reappears in a heartbeat, back stiffening like a lance.

Illia must have been leaving a meeting. Newt recognises the courtiers of the northern ports. Their faces darken when they see Hermann. They bow, but that doesn’t mean much.

“Your majesty, your highness.” Illia bows as well, but it’s for show. Newt shifts his weight and nods awkwardly. Illia catches his eye and glares at him under his brows.

“My lords.” Newt greets them uncomfortably.

Hermann looks at him uncertainly, and bows to the courtiers. It’s a nice bow, very polished. “My lords.” It’s just the right angle, the address just the right level of respect and dismissal. Newt feels like the village idiot in comparison.

“With your leave, my lord?” Illia is perfectly polite, but his face is a storm.

“Yes, yes.” Newt waves the courtiers away. “I’ll talk my uncle. Um, good day.” Gods he hates this.

“Your health, your majesty, your highness.” They bow and curtsey.

“And yours, my lords.” Hermann inclines his head. A perfect delivery, the kind Newt’s father spent years hopelessly trying to drill in him.

They go. Illia glares at him. “And how well did that go, my lord?” He raises an eyebrow.

Newt groans. “Yeah, okay. I wasn’t expecting them-“

“And he did?” Illia nods at Hermann. “He kept his manners, why not you?”

Newt looks at Hermann, he looks uncomfortable. “I’m not good at this, you know that-“ He sounds petulant even to his own ears.

“You should at least seem to give a damn!” Illia hisses. “Your little slayer prince made a better showing of it than you did!”

“What do you expect?” Newt snarls, his throat catches and growls, his voice drops several octaves, “What’s the point of this- this song and dance-“

“The point is that we need all the help we can get! We need their support and what do you think it looks like when you come swanning out and disrespect them like this! And with that killer decked out with-“

“Don’t start-“ He breaks off.

Hermann is gone.

* * *

Hermann doesn’t know where he’s going. He might be able to make him way back to the bedroom, or maybe the baths, but he’s taken the wrong turning, and he’s barely thinking.

Lord Illia’s face, twisted and angry and spitting. Slayer. Killer.

He wants to fade into the walls. His wants to shut off his ears and close his eyes and blot out the world and let the world blot him out. Not be there, not exist.

He’d dared to hope, hadn’t he? He had thought he’d been wrong. That he might be- content here, with his strange, wild king, with his kind eyes and gentle hands.

Slayer. Killer. A flame of anger licks his throat. Had they been there, had they seen that- creature- those claws, those teeth. The fire in its jaws and its green, empty eyes.

Had they been there- what would have happened then? Would they have been as frightened as he had been, or would they all have laughed- Lord Illia, Pentecost, Newton- and helped that beast kill him?

He isn’t home. He will never be home.

The stone of the walls is getting rawer, closer to the bedrock of the castle. It is hot here. Hermann starts when footsteps sound behind him, coming more quickly than he can go, even with his new staff.

“Hermann?”

Newton. Hermann turns. He doesn’t want to see him. He can’t see anyone in this place.

There is a door in the corridor. Hermann starts for it. The inside is dark, but he goes in.

“Hermann!”

He closes the door and leans against it. His leg aches from the sudden rush, and his breath catches in his throat. He closes his eyes and swallows the tightness in his chest.

Footsteps hurry behind him. Hermann holds his breath and they pass. He gasps for breath and relief. No one for now. He can’t take it- he can’t-

The room glows red behind his closed lids. The room stinks of smoke, burnt stone, the acrid hint of hot scale. Hermann stops breathing.

Now he’s listening for it, he can hear the crackle of flame; within it is the scrape of claws on stone, the creak of wings and crackle of scale on scale. He screws his eyes tighter. His legs buckle and he slides down the door, clutching his staff. The floor is hot under him.

He has no magic, he has no sword. He is dressed in furs and silks and there is nothing to keep him from burning. Nothing to defend himself with but this ridiculous staff.

But the flame does not come. Hermann hesitates, takes an uncertain breath. Listens.

No claws, no wings, no scales. Just the crackle of steady flames close by. Hermann takes a second, deeper breath, and cracks an eye open.

The light is red and flickering from dozens of trenches. The shadows dance, but nothing moves. Hermann opens a second eye, and turns from where he’d huddled against the door.

He gets up awkwardly, leg stiffened from fear and tension. He throws his weight on his staff and straightens.

The flames dance around a hundred great stone shapes. Hermann starts forwards, then stops.

Eggs. A hundred eggs. Hermann’s heart starts again for the first time in minutes, now hammers so hard he cannot count the individual beats. The eggs are of every size; large as boulders, small as sparrow’s eggs, each sitting on a stand within the flames. Hermann walks towards them as though in a dream. Every colour, glistening translucent white, black so deep it reflects every flicker of flame, the white gleam of Hermann’s robes; and every shade in between. Deep red and yellow mixed like a sunset, blue with flecks of white, dappled green like a forest shade, like a dragon’s eye, like the eyes of his new husband.

The dragon’s eggs had been dulled grey and green, he’d have thought them moss grown stones if it wasn’t for the fire they bathed in. The fire from the jaws of the dragon coiled around them. The maddened snarl on its face as it raised its head to look at him. The fire in its eyes, the insanity. The scream of rage.

Hermann turns, surrounded by flames. So close, he can hear the dragons stirring in their shells. His breath comes faster, the room spins. He closes his eyes, tightens his grip on the wood, tries to steady his breathing, catch breath through the smoke.

He opens his eyes, and they alight on an egg.

Of all the eggs, this one is by far the most beautiful. It glitters like a gemstone in the firelight. Purple and green like tourmaline, like fire topaz. It shimmers and shifts, roiling like oil in water.

Hermann walks over to it. It is faceted like a gemstone, so perfect he can barely believe it’s an egg. It looks as though it should be in Newton’s hoard, given pride of place in any royal sceptre or crown. Hermann hesitates, and holds out his hand to touch it, feel its edges and warmth-

“Hermann!” Hermann turns.

Newt is standing at the door, looking relieved, he steps inside and Illia follows. His eyes grow wide when he sees Hermann.

“What are you doing?” It’s barely a breath, but it carries across the room. Hermann looks down at the egg, the gem, lying so innocently under his hand. It almost burns him; it’s so hot, crisp and hard as diamond.

“Step away from there!”

The colours shift and suddenly there’s a flash of white in the shell. It rolls up and flickers, disappearing and reappearing in a slow blink. It’s an eye.

He doesn’t have time to move away when the egg cracks. It splits under his palm as though his touch was enough to break it. Hermann snatches his hand back. Cracks slice down the faceted sides of the egg, glinting white in the firelight, then it tips and shatters like a crystal goblet. Shards fly everywhere, lying untouched in the coals and flames.

The creature left sitting on the stand is not a dragon. Hermann has no idea what it is. It looks like a cross between a bedraggled chick and a serpent. A tangle of neck and tail, covered in damp and shrivelling feathers. Hermann snatches the creature up before it can catch fire. The flames shear his hands and he hisses in pain. The creature is almost as hot as the coals, it coils and unwinds in his hands, the feathers sticking and rolling between his fingers.

Hermann looks down at the thing. It is the same colour as the egg- in fact; it gave the egg its dazzling colour, for the eggshell pieces are clear as quartz. The creature’s feathers are a gleaming, constantly shifting iridescent blur of colours, green and purple and pink and red and aqua. Hermann has never even heard of such a creature. As he looks at it, it looks back up.

The head is soft and blunt like a serpent, half-hidden by its ruff and crest. Its mouth opens, soft and pink, with tiny teeth fine as lace, sharp as needles. It blinks and its eyes are a deep, shifting green.

Newt comes running up behind him, stops short and approaches more cautiously. Hermann doesn’t look up.

It’s a dragon. A dragon smaller than a kitten, covered in a fan of glorious feathers. It’s soft and warm in Hermann’s hands. He can feel its miniscule claws scratching his skin. Hermann’s chest contracts in a sudden tremble of laughter. Are these the terrible dragons of the northern kingdom? Is this what he was so frightened of?

The dragon snaps its teeth and opens its mouth again, this time letting out the tiniest of chirps. It hunches, and a lick of fire comes from its mouth. It’s little more than a candleflame.

Hermann looks up at Newton, smiling. Isn’t this the perfect symbol for this kingdom? Something he had been frightened of for so long, and turns out to be – so sweet, so harmless.

Newton isn’t smiling. Illia behind him looks nauseous. Hermann looks from them, to the tiny creature nuzzling his sleeves. Hermann twitches them out of its reach, so it doesn’t singe the fur.

“Is it- can I-“ Newton steps closer, but the moment his fingers come close, the creature’s back arches, it snaps it teeth and spits sparks at him. Newt snatches his hand back and sucks his fingers.

“Sorry.” Hermann pulls the dragon away before it can attack again.

Newton waves the apology away, fingers still in his mouth.

“Is that-“ Illia looks over Newton’s shoulder.

“Yeah, that the one.” Newton wipes his fingers on his robes. “Didn’t know it was ready to hatch.”

“Apparently their eggs don’t go dull before hatching. I thought we had weeks. And it’s so small-”

The dragon hisses at them, and coils more closely to Hermann. The heat of its body is like a hot iron against his robes.

“Could you talk to it?”

“At that age?” Newton leans down to look the tiny dragon in the eye, it hisses again, but does not attack.

The noise Newton makes is somewhere between a whistle and a chirp, a noise unlike any Hermann thought could come from a human throat. He chatters deep in his throat. The creature blinks, shuffles more comfortably, and its body trembles in a growl, narrow feathered wings arching out to make itself look bigger.

“You’re scaring it.” Hermann puts a hand on the tiny thing. He remembers watching a kitten trying to puff itself up, a puppy yapping angrily at a wolfhound.

“Her.” Newton corrects. He shrugs at Illia. “They wanted her brought up in the royal household, we can do that.”

“Not like this!” Illia hisses. He looks from Newton to Hermann, down at the hatchling, then back up at Hermann. “What am I supposed to write? That we let their prize egg go to that-“

“I am right here!” Hermann snarls. The words come out before he is even aware of them. Perhaps it is the dragon, the reminder that for once he is for once not the most helpless and weak in the room. “I know what you think of me!”

“Do you know what that is?” Illia is shouting. Hermann huddles on himself. The dragon curls tighter and snarls, spitting a tongue of blue-white fire. “Did Lars tell you? Did he tell you to seek it out?!”

Hermann stares. “I don’t-“ He’s not sure what he can say to this madness.

“How in the hells would Lars know?” Newton interposes himself. “We kept it locked down, you made sure of that-“

“Are you really so ignorant you don’t think we have spies?” Illia snarls. “He went straight here, the moment he had a chance-“

“We didn’t know it was ready to hatch, how would they know?”

Illia doesn’t have anything to say to that. He glares furiously between the three of them, then turns on Hermann. “Listen now, and listen well. If anything happens to that dragon, anything at all, if she doesn’t thrive, if she doesn’t eat, if she has even one feather out of place, you will pay for it. Every wound, every drop of blood, you will pay. If she dies-“ He lets it hang, one finger hovering in front of Hermann’s chest.

The dragon coughs, and spits fire. Illia swears and pulls his hand back, shaking his scorched fingers. Newton barely covers a snort.

Illia glares, scowls at Hermann one final time, “I suppose I might as well recall the staff, if this is how it is going.” Then he sweeps out of the room. Hermann is left with Newton, still holding the dragon. It sighs in satisfaction, and curls itself between his hands, tucking its head under a wing.

Hermann looks down at it, then up at Newton. He’s still smiling, although it’s fading. “Sorry about that. He gets-“ Newton flaps a hand at the door, then shrugs. “I’m sorry I didn’t say more, but it’s best just to let him get it out. If you argue it just gets worse.”

“What did he- What did I do?” Hermann looks at the dragon. It looks like its fallen asleep, sides rising and falling, a faint heat-haze rising from its body. “What is it?”

“Her. It’s a she.” Newton carefully lifts a hand, and strokes the sleeping creature’s flanks. “She‘s a Quaetz.”

“I’ve never heard of them.”

“Well yeah, you wouldn’t. They’re from Mictlan, and that’s about as far south as you can go. My father wanted a treaty with them, and they sent us the egg as a swap. One of their royal lines for one of ours. Illia sent the last egg from his family, so he’s been a bit- overprotective of this one.”

“And if it- she- gets hurt? What if she dies?” The creature is a ball of fluff in his hands.

“The treaty’s off, and they take revenge on my uncle’s egg. So nothing good.”

Panic starts to coil in his stomach. “I don’t know what to do. I’ve never- how do you-“

“It’s okay.” Newt touches his hand, strokes the tiny creature’s back. “I’ll show you what to do. I looked after Kodachi when he hatched.” He pauses. “He wasn’t this small though.”

“Is this normal?” Hermann asks fearfully, he’s seen runts starve and sicken faster than others in their litter; it would be utterly in keeping with his luck to be made responsible for a dying animal.

“I don’t know. She looks fine though.” His fingers gently probe the creature’s neck, the joints of her legs and wings, top of the tail. “Isn’t she lovely?”

“She is.” Hermann agrees.

“She suits you. You look great together.”

Hermann isn’t sure if he blushes, or if it’s the heat of the fires. At least it should be too dark for Newton to notice.

“We’ll go the kitchen before she wakes up. They’re always hungry at this age.”

* * *

She doesn’t eat. Hermann should have guessed. He knows his luck. Newton looks lost as they try every meat in the kitchen; goat, pork, beef, duck, venison. They try the pieces raw, seared, boiled, charred; everything. Newton even orders one of the cooks to bring a chicken, to see if the creature will only eat meat she killed herself, but the dragon just chirps sadly and turns away from the terrified animal.

“Please eat.” Hermann begs. Even without Illia’s threats, he could not bear to see this beautiful creature starve.

Newton tries to speak to it again, trilling and purring in the tongue Hermann cannot make any sense of. The Quaetz looks at him quizzically and curls up in Hermann’s hands, a tiny ball of bones and feathers.

“They must have known we’d have problems.” Newton murmurs. “That must have known, they’d have sent something, or told us what we’d need.”

“Maybe they wanted an excuse to not sign the treaty?”

“No. This was a royal egg. They worship their line like gods; they wouldn’t send one off to die.”

Hermann wonders. No one worshipped his family, but he had thought he was being sent to die, hadn’t he?

“We’re missing something.” Newt groans.

A heavy thumping from outside breaks into their discussion, Newton looks up and winces. “Ah. Illia must have gotten everyone back.”

“What-“ Hermann turns, the huge double doors open.

“Um, Hermann? This is the cook. His name is- well, never mind, you can’t pronounce it. Just call him Cook, that’s fine. Grunthhllhja-krallnithbrthill-“ Newton slides easily into the same unintelligible tongue he’d used to speak to the Quaetz. Hermann doesn’t hear him.

The dragon’s head is big as any of the tables, overlapping teeth long as swords. It stalks in, long, even strides, wings coiled tight around its body. It fills the huge kitchen, pinions scraping the ceiling, scales clattering against the walls.

Newton continues chattering. Hermann cannot even make out the words, just rises and falls in tone, breaks to clack and growl. The huge creature looks at them, turning first one huge, swirling green eye on them, then the other. It growls deep and rumbling in its throat, opens its mouth- those great and terrible teeth – to hiss and snap.

Hermann cannot move. In a strange fashion, he has been expecting this since he came here and it is almost a relief. The fear is there, devouring him, but it seems far-off, as though coming from underwater. This dragon, larger than the one he had faced, larger than he had heard in anything but horror stories or seen in nightmares, is so close he can smell it. Hot, almost smoke-sweet, with an acrid undertone. Newton growls and snaps, and the monster’s great head turns to look at him.

Those great, impossible eyes drill him in place. He can smell the flame on its breath; see the saliva running from its huge teeth. It snarls, so deep he can feel it in his chest, hisses in hatred.

A tiny, sharp shriek tears Hermann’s eyes from the terrible beast. The Quaetz is rearing in his arms, wings fanned out, crest and frills raised to make herself as big as possible. She spits tiny flickers of fire, snaps her tiny teeth and tries to bite the enormous creature. Tiny as she is, weak as she is from hatching and hunger, she throws herself at the dragon which stands thousands of times larger than her- to protect Hermann.

Hermann wraps his arms around her, turning away, certain the dragon will anger and burn them both.

The dragon snorts, jerks its head back and lets loose a barrage of deafening roars. It takes a few hideous moments for Hermann to realise it is laughing.

Newton touches his shoulder. “It’s fine. It’s okay- just-“ He turns back and talks at a more level tone, and something about how he looks at the Quaetz suggests he is asking the dragon – the Cook dear Gods- about feeding her.

The dragon grumbles deep and low, and looks back at Hermann, who hesitantly unfolds his arms to let it see her. It scrutinises her, first one eye, then the other, then pulling its head back to get her into focus. Then it lowers its head again, rattling something which Hermann doesn’t need Newton to translate. It doesn’t know.

Hermann cradles the tiny dragon- who had been willing to take on this hopeless fight for him. How long can she last like this? A human can last weeks without food, but she’s so small and thin. A day? Two at most? Hermann feels panic start to build in his chest again, the huge Cook all but forgotten.

* * *

Hermann is beginning to realise what Newton had meant about sending so many of the servants away, because the castle is swarming with dragons.

Illia must have told them to go so as not to start a fight- to be expected if they thought him a belligerent dragonslayer. But now Hermann is caring for the Quaetz, he must have decided it not worth the trouble. None of them, thank the Gods, are the size of the Cook, but many are bigger than the one he killed. The smaller ones scuttle underfoot, snapping and snarling in what Hermann is only just beginning to accept is a language, while others, bigger, stalk through the corridors, rattling their wings.

They carry water, bales of cloth, messages, food. They work here. They scorch the dirt of the corridor away with their breath, warm the stone with the great heat of their bodies. Several stop to speak to Newton, bowing low so their bellies touch the ground. He chatters to them easily, nods to Hermann to introduce him.

They look at him with none of the respect they show Newton. They bare teeth when he is not looking, hiss, spit small burst of flame. The Quaetz roars back with all the strength of her tiny body, flaring and fluffing herself and beating her wings against Hermann’s hands. But her roars become fewer as the day wears on; and more and more she curls up in Hermann’s hands, hissing softly to herself. Is she as warm as she was? Hermann is not sure.

Hermann insists on going upstairs and consulting his books. Newton is reluctant at first, craning to see over the human and dragon heads towards the gates to the hall. Then he sees Hermann’s face, and the Quaetz, and comes along.

Hermann picks his eyeglasses from a pocket of his bag and slips them on one-handed. Newton looks at him, then away. Hermann is sure he’s smiling.

He ignores him, and upends his bag on their bed. The five ancient books topple out and Hermann feels guilty almost at once for the harsh treatment. He hands Newton the two thicker ones. “Here, look through these.” He starts flicking through the pages with his free hand.

Newton stares at the two books with a look rather like the one Hermann had turned on the hoard. As though he is looking at more riches than he could have ever dreamed. “Look!” Hermann insists. They have no time.

Newton opens the pages reverently. “These must be a hundred years old.”

“More like three hundred.” Spells to call winds. Spells to walk through stone. Spells to hurl flame. Useless. All useless.

“What are we looking for?”

“Anything to give life, to transfer strength. Even to give warmth, I think she’s getting colder.”

“Can we keep her alive like that?” Newton starts on the book, staring helplessly at the diagrams and equations.

“For a little while, until we can find out what she eats.” Hermann keeps going, all the different variations of numbers and how they can affect the ebbs and flows of one’s body. But these were calculated with humans in mind. It would take weeks for Hermann to discover how to make them apply to a dragon, let alone one like the Quaetz, whom no one knew anything about.

“I don’t know how you can read this.” Newton hands him the books back, looking lost. “I can’t even find the titles.”

“They’re worked into the numbers.” Hermann closes the book with a sigh. Nothing. He picks up the next one. “Can you get any of the books you have here? Maybe they’ll have spells for dragons.”

Newton gives a choked snort. “Like your books? We’d have to sell the hoard for maybe two. They might have some on the ice, but they’ll take weeks to come. And they probably won’t be anything like this.”

Hermann looks down at his old books. He’d rescued them from the mouse-nibbled bookshelves where his father had banished the books that had fallen from favour. He’d had no more patience with magic than he had with Hermann. And here they are, worth the wealth of a kingdom.

By the time a servant comes to call them to dinner and to help Hermann dress himself- Newton flatly refused assistance- all he has managed is a small cantrip to pour warmth back into Quaetz’s tiny body. He doesn’t bother memorising it, holding it in his mind only long enough to take the fragile creature and complete the equation, the power in the numbers coming together to funnel life and heat into her body.

The dragon stirs from her torpor and lifts her head. She chirps, and even that sounds weak.

Newton looks at him, and covers his hand with his. “We’ll ask Illia at dinner. And maybe Pentecost; he’s travelled so much, maybe he knows.”

Hermann doesn’t say anything. Newton squeezes his hand.

The dinner is huge, even larger than yesterday. The seats that would have held his father and his retinue have been replaced with huge benches and the dragons of the court now settle there. Their eyes track him as he follows Newton to the high table.

He ought to be afraid, and some part of him is, or at least is primed to be, but it seems as though all his fear is concentrated on the small creature in his arms, who is now too weak even to growl at the ugly looks they receive.

They settle, and the first dishes are brought in. Newton leans over to speak with Illia, and Herman turns away, not wanting to see the look on the other man’s face when Newton tells him how utterly he is failing to care for his ward. Instead he turns to General Pentecost, who is seated beside him. The man is resplendent in his richly decorated armor and cloak, but his face is kind when Hermann starts trying to explain.

Suddenly, the Quaetz stirs, claws digging into his arm like a kitten milk-treading. Hermann relaxes his grip and it scuttles onto the table, tearing tiny rents into the cloth. She limps uncertainly but goes straight to one of the roasts.

“That’s venison,” Newton protests, “We tried that-“

But she doesn’t eat it. Instead she starts licking at the meat, long tongue working over the hard crackling skin. Hermann rubs his fingers on the meat and sniffs them, then licks them.

“Pepper and cinnamon.” He breathes, feeling sick with relief. “Spices.”

“Spice!” Roars Illia. “Bring all the spice in the kitchens! I don’t care if we have to eat nothing but salt all week, bring them now!”

A few moments later, the poor Quaetz is surrounded by more spices than she could possibly eat. She turns her head from one bowl to the next, sniffing, licking, sneezing once, a tiny stifled sound.

Then, confronted with a bowl of long shrivelled reddish things that look a thousand years old, she pounces. Her sharp teeth tear into the tough flesh and spill tiny yellow seeds everywhere, along with a smell that makes everyone’s eyes stream with tears. Hermann barely cares, or that when he tries to rub his eyes he only makes the burning worse. The Quaetz is eating ravenously, splitting the red sheathes to the core and eating the seeds, scraping the insides bare with her sharp teeth.

“What is that?”

“A Mictlan spice.” Pentecost pushes a second bowl of the things, green this time, towards the dragon. “Considered to be a holy food, I believe.”

Hermann looks down at the tiny dragon, and around at the court. It’s as though he’s seeing them for the first time. The humans in fine furs and robes, including the courtiers he had met earlier. The dragons- gods, the dragons, their horns and ruffs bedecked with jewellery, silks and rich paint streaking their hides and necks.

It feels like a bizarre dream, this court of monsters. He should be terrified but he is just too exhausted to muster the emotion. If they wanted to kill him, they would have done it by now. Hermann slumps back into his chair; the Quaetz has finished the Mictlan spices, and has turned her attention to the cinnamon. The bark crunches in her jaws. Hermann runs a finger down her crest and she grunts something through the mouthful of bark and nuzzles his fingers.

They are still looking at him, but something has relaxed in the hall. Hermann picks up a few grains of allspice and offer it to the Quaetz; she sniffs at them, and nips at his fingers in her hurry.

Newton smiles; and even Illia looks less angry. Pentecost nods, and suggests a handful of dried vanilla pods, which the dragon makes disappear with shocking alacrity for her tiny size.

“Haven’t you had enough yet?” Hermann rubs the side of her head. The feathers are dry now; and downy soft.

“They eat like mad the first few months.” Newton leans over. “I hope she’ll take meat soon or we’ll have to go to Mictlan ourselves to get enough. It’s already going to cost us a stupid amount.”

“Any price is acceptable. The Mictlanders know that.” Illia settles back and sips from a goblet. For once, Hermann is in complete agreement with him.

“I take it you’ve never heard of the custom of the white elephant, in Bharat?” Pentecost breaks in, pouring himself a glass of wine.

“We haven’t travelled as much as you, general.” Illia frowns.

“Well, perhaps you don’t know that the ruler of Bharat sends the white elephant to those who displease him, ensuring that its care bankrupts them? The elephant eats-“ Hermann tunes them out. He meets Newton’s eyes, and Newton rolls his. Apparently this is par for the course here as well. The Quaetz has finally stopped eating, collapsing on her side amidst a wreckage of empty bowls, her little stomach swollen, feathers fluttering from the heat of her meal and body.

Hermann strokes the soft feathers, and tickles the soft, fine scales of her belly. Her eyes flicker open a slit, then slide closed again when Hermann scoops her up to hold her against his body. Newton looks at him and smiles. He nudges a plate of roast towards Herman encouragingly.

Hermann suddenly doesn’t care about where he is, about the hostile looks, the dragons. He doesn’t think whether the food is poisoned, or if Newton is trying to drug him, or it they are just planning to fatten him up to eat him. He hasn’t eaten since this morning in the madness, and he is hungrier than he has ever felt.

He finishes that plate, and the next Newton passes to him. He doesn’t care that he should only eat a little and pass it down, he is so hungry he eats two more plates from the fish course before he slows down and catches his breath. He only has a few bites of the desserts, and none of the cheeses. He feels like the Quaetz, slow and warm, stomach taut and full. Newton smiles at him and shifts a little closer. Hermann leans in, and Newton kisses the side of his head.

When they leave, the hall is still full. Newton stands first, and takes his hand reassuringly. Hermann gets up, one hand in Newton’s, the other wrapped around the Quaetz. She stirs sleepily.

The fear claws at him, not gripping yet, but searching for a hold. Hermann swallows, and stares straight ahead. He doesn’t look at the court- at those eyes, those green, green eyes, all staring at him- until they reach the doors, and head upstairs.

Someone has already been here, because Hermann’s books have been neatly stacked away, the fire is blazing, and the side table is covered in bowls of spice for night feeding. One of the servants is waiting for Hermann, and he recognises the green-eyed girl from his wedding. She bows, and Hermann hesitates.

“I will be fine for tonight.” He is tired. Too tired for anyone. The girl bows again, and leaves.

The Quaetz wakes and chirrups, butting Hermann’s hand. He looks down at her, this tiny, beautiful being he has suddenly become responsible for. It’s impossible to think she is any relation to the creatures he had seen in the court. To the one he had fought. She looks up at him and purrs, her throat pulsing under the vivid feathers.

Then she hops down from his arms, and lopes towards the fire. Hermann follows, but lets her go ahead. So he is two steps too late when she scuttles, weasellike, across the room, and leaps, fluttering her beautiful wings, straight into the flames.

Hermann cries out; tries to reach her, but Newton pulls him away.

“It’s okay!”

“But she-“

“She’s a dragon, Hermann.” Newton’s hands are on his wrists, gently but firmly restraining him. “Fire can’t hurt them. She’s fine. Look.”

Hermann looks. The Quaetz curls in the white-hot crumbling logs, the flames flicker around and under and above her, are reflected in a thousand sheds of scarlet in her feathers, but do not touch her.

“See, it’s like a hot bath. She can sleep and it’ll keep her warm. She’ll be fine. It’s all okay.”

The world trembles under his feet. Hermann feels dizzy. Newton takes him by the shoulder and helps sit him on the edge of the bed. He doesn’t sit as much as collapse on the bed, his eyes still locked on the Quaetz. She looks like a cat on cinders, and through the crackle of the flames, he is sure he hears a purr.

Hermann buries his face in his hands and tries to breathe. How can anyone live like this? He has lived years in his short life that have not been as eventful as today. How can anyone catch their breath? Newton rubs his back sympathetically.

Hermann smiles at him, grateful. But then, Newton has done this before, hadn’t he? “Is this what it was like with you with- Kodachi?” He asks, carefully spelling out the strange name and taking off his boots.

Newton sits back on the bed. “Not as bad. I was pretty small too, and we both had our Moms to look after us. Maybe you could meet him with me tomorrow?”

Why not? It can’t possibly be worse than today. Then again- “Is he larger than the cook?” Hermann drops back and crawls on his back up the bed.

“Um, maybe a bit smaller?” Newton kicks his boots off and joins Hermann on the bed.

Fine. He will cope. He is going to have to. There will be no other way of living here. The thought is enough to sap what little strength he has left, but then he remembers the Quaetz and her tiny, ridiculous outrage in his defence. Then he smiles.

Newton’s hands are sharply cold on his skin, and Hermann makes a muffled protest as he starts unhooking his clothes. “I can’t.” He is so tired.

“That’s fine.” Newton’s breath is warm on his cheek. “But you’ll sleep better with this off.”

Hermann hums. His cloak is slipped out from under him; his robes are loosened and slid down over his waist, down his legs to pool on the floor. Newton hesitates at his shift and underclothes, and Hermann takes them off for him, smiling sleepily.

He nearly drifts off while Newton gets undressed, watching from under half-closed eyes. He’s lovely. Lying here, feeling too tired to be scared and with little desire to be; he can recognise it, even if only to himself. The tattoos are nothing but a blur of colour from under his eyelids, and if he can see any, he can convince himself they are like the Quaetz, small and inoffensive.

Newton pulls the blankets over them both and slides in himself, so warm. Like having a big Quaetz in bed with him.

“Should I name her?” He murmurs, half-awake.

“No, she’ll name herself when she’s ready.” Newton rolls closer, nuzzling the arch of his neck.

“Will you memorialise her?” His fingers card over Newt’s arm.

“Definitely.” He kisses the hollow of his jaw.

“Good.” Hermann feels his eyes slide closed. He dreams of the room filling with feathers, dancing red and orange like flames.


	3. Language

The dragon roars. Flames lick the edges of its teeth, but Hermann is already moving. The flame scorches his shadow, burning it into the stone. Hermann crouches, spear readied, tongue trembling on the first syllables of a spell.

The dragon roars again, coils and uncoils its impossibly long body, tensing to pounce but unwilling to leave its eggs unguarded. It claws at the ground, raking deep grooves in the solid stone.

Hermann trembles, hands slipping on the shaft of his spear. He doesn't feel ready; he has none of the cold, perfect calm his siblings claimed to feel in their honour trials. They had returned with their honour of a dragonhead, exhilarated and joyful. Hermann just wants to be sick.

He focuses on the spear, the solid weight of the wooden haft, the drag of the barbed steel on the point. His mind traces the brutally sharp edges and his mouth moves, feeling the edge, thinning it further, narrowing the point beyond what even the most brilliant smith could make, until the very element of air is cut through when the spear wavers, following the dragon's movement.

Its head sways, jaws snapping, huge green orbs rolling and maddened in their sockets. The teeth; each longer than his dagger, in a jaw big enough to snap him in half. Hermann tears his eyes from the terrible sight, the certainty that he is about to die, he was sent here never to come back. He was meant to be food for this monster, to fatten it for when a more worthy warrior would come to take its head-

The dragon lunges, and Hermann strikes. All thought of technique, all memory of training fails him. His mind locks on nothing but the hysterical terror of _take it away- don't let it near me oh gods_ -

The spear flies straight and true and then- when he knows somehow it must have hit- can see the dragon flailing and dying as the spear punctures under its throat and it bleeds out, its claws lashing out in one final act of malice and sinking, impossibly deep, into his leg- the dragon dodges. It snatches the spear out of the air with its teeth, jerking it from Hermann's shaking hand and snapping it in half.

Hermann freezes, his mind empty. He has nothing on him but his dagger, and when he draws it, it looks pathetic in comparison. Like a mouse threatening a cat with a toothpick. The dragon knocks him off his feet with a contemptuous flick of its wing, the dagger skittering away along the rough floor of the cavern.

Hermann rolls over, tries to crawl to his feet, but the dragon is on him. Hermann covers his face, uselessly, terrified, as the thing lowers its head and-

Bumps its muzzle hard against his ribs.

Hermann curls up instinctively and the dragon continues- roughly knocking against his side with the tip of its snout. He tries to pull away and the dragon follows him, jabbing him insistently-

He opens his eyes blearily, hands lost and tangled in bedclothes. The air is chill, but the bedclothes are so close and hot that he’s sweating uncontrollably. Hermann tries to squirm out and something hits him in the chest again. He pushes the blankets off and is rewarded with an indignant chirp and a thump.

Hermann leans over the edge of the bed, and the Quaetz looks up at him, coiled up and shivering on the floor. She hisses, and blows smoke in his face, making him sneeze. “Come on.” His voice is rough even in his own ears as he reaches down to pick her up.

His skin prickles with goosepimples; the window is open and the grey morning air is sharp with frost. The Quaetz lifts herself on her hind legs and nips at his fingers, huffing sparks and smoke. Hermann catches her around the waist, the feathers tickle his hands and the body underneath is deliciously hot and soft, he can feel the skin pulsing as she breathes.

He hisses as he hauls her up. She’s _heavy_ \- much heavier than yesterday, surely. Her feathers are slightly grainy and when he gets her up- the Quaetz chirps happily and curls up on his stomach among the blankets- he can see her feathers are grey, and she has left a trail of shed ash from the fireplace. The bowls of spice are licked gleaming clean and scattered around the hearth.

“Still hungry?” Hermann covers her body with both hands. She’s better fleshed than yesterday, body all but thrumming with heat, feathers fluttering. “Newton will end up with no hoard and I with one very fat dragon, at this rate.”

She purrs. Beside him, the bedclothes quiver. Hermann glances over and Newton’s face appears between the covers. He squints at him. “Gods’ balls, it’s _freezing_ in here.”

He kicks the blankets off and Hermann yelps at the sudden influx of cold, curling up around the hot body of the Quaetz. Newt curses, dancing across the chill floor over to the window and closing it. The early light wavers a little through the thick glass; highlighting Newton’s tattoos in shades of grey and the first lines of creeping golden light.

Newt adds some logs to the fire and stirs up the sparks to help them catch, then hurries back to bed. He hops over Hermann and rolls up in the blankets, shivering. Hermann growls and yanks at the cocoon, unrolling Newt until the blanket covers the three of them.

The Quaetz burrows up to his chest and sticks her head out, chirping and butting his face.

“What’s the matter with her?” Newton huddles in the blankets, rolling closer. He’s deliciously warm.

“She’s hungry again,” Hermann strokes her, from the head, down her back, to the tip of her tail. She’s larger too- no longer the size of a kitten- a full grown cat now, her weight solid and welcoming against his chest.

“Shit- yeah, of course she is.” Newt lies back and rubs his face. “S’okay, we can send to the kitchens- gods, we can just go there ourselves, they’ll have the fires going and Cook’ll be there- it’ll be warmer than here.”

Hermann hesitates; the thought of facing the enormous dragon brings his dream back vividly. But the Quaetz is hungry, and it’s miserably cold here and _he did this yesterday_. He can do it again. The Quaetz hisses happily when he sits up and tucks her to his chest; she warms him -the heat of her body, the bright gleam of her eyes- and he feels a little better.

The thick fur of his robes cuts out the worst of the cold, and the lining of his boots is fluffy against his bare feet; they tickle without stockings. The Quaetz drapes herself across his shoulders like a hot feather stole. He leans gratefully on his staff, taking the weight off a leg cramping and stiff with the cold.

It’s warmer inside the castle, still early enough that the only ones up are the servants cleaning the floors. They smile and bow or curtsy to Newt, look curiously at Hermann. Newt greets them cheerfully, picks his way carefully across the floors, trying not to mess their cleaning, and draws another smile from them.

The kitchen is bright and the heat is incredible. Hermann rubs his hands together, feeling the cold ease from his bones. The fireplaces are roaring, the smell of roasting meat and honey rich in the air. The Quaetz lifts her head and sniffs eagerly.

The cook turns his great head at them, smoke wreathing from his nostrils. Newt smiles, slipping easily into the rhythmic, trilling dragon tongue. Hermann hesitates, not wanting to come any closer and feeling lost in the great heat and noise of the kitchen. Someone pushes past him in a hurry to get to the fireplaces, carrying a huge, simmering pot; they snap long jaws at him, hiss impatiently and in dislike. Hermann tries to find somewhere out of the way to stand- but there doesn’t appear to be one.

It’s uncomfortably familiar, standing alone and isolated in the middle of a crowd, never noticed, always in the way. Huddling in on himself to try and take up less space. Unseen. Unwanted.

“Hermann?” Newt is beside him, smiling. A man dusted all over in flour brushes past them and Newt puts a hand on Hermann’s shoulder to steady him. “Oh, don’t worry about them. The only King here is Cook, we’re just foreigners.” He tucks a bundle in Hermann’s hands. “I got a few things for us; I thought maybe we could have breakfast outside? And you could meet Kodachi.”

Hermann slips a hand into the cloth wrap and his fingers run through grains and seed pods, slick and oily and his skin tingles just at the contact. The Quaetz chirrups eagerly and Hermann draws his hand out and offers it to her. She picks the shards of cinnamon and aniseed and the red pods of chili from his fingers, not so much as singeing or nipping his fingers as she eats.

Newt falls into step next to him as they leave to the colder air of the corridors; he slips his hand into the bag and feeds the Quaetz a dried lump of ginger. She sniffs his fingers disapprovingly, and quickly snatches the spice from him. She turns her back haughtily to Newt as she holds it down against Hermann’s shoulder to tear it apart with her tiny teeth, hungrily gulping down the chunks of sweet pungent root.

Hermann hesitates before handing her the next piece, he does not know what trade is like here, but back home- the thought jabs at him, sharp and hard and cutting his breath- back _south_ , the Quaetz could have been eating gold and emeralds and cost less.

“Hey,” Newt touches his shoulder, “Are you okay? We don’t have to go out, if you don’t want to.”

The Quaetz, impatient for more food, slides down into his arms and pushes her head into the bag. Her body trembles happily and the sounds of muffled crunching comes from inside the bag. Hermann takes a breath, tightens his grip on the dragon. “Is- how long will she eat like this? What if we don’t have enough food for her? And in winter- if the passes freeze and the traders cannot come-“

“Hey.” Newt stands in front of him, puts his hands on Hermann’s arms and looks him in the eye. “Nothing is going to happen to her. Illia’ll fly to Mictlan himself if he has to, to make sure she’s fed.”

Hermann doesn’t answer. In the bag, the Quaetz has finished eating, and is nosing sadly through the folds of cloth in case she had overlooked some fragment of bark or seed pod. She’s heavier already, and so hot she is almost burning his hands. She pulls her head out and chirps at Hermann. He doesn’t need Newt to translate what she wants.

“Can we go back to the kitchen?” Going back inside after they have just escaped is nerve-wracking but-

Newt frowns at the Quaetz, then starts digging in his own bag, coming out with a dried, spiced ham, slicing off a piece with his knife. “See if she might take this?”

Hermann tucks the Quaetz clumsily in the crook of his arm, and takes the pungent, sweet smelling ham. The Quaetz perks up at the smell, feathers fluffing in excitement before slowly falling flat as she sniffs uncertainly at the meat. She looks at him, green eyes wide and confused. “You can eat it.” Hermann coaxes her.

Another, reluctant sniff. Hermann sighs, about to give up, and Newt suddenly grabs the ham out of his hand. The Quaetz starts, and hisses angrily. Newt stuffs the ham in his mouth and hisses back, spraying fragments of meat. “What are you doing!” Hermann jerks away, disgusted.

Newt ignores him, chewing noisily with his mouth open. The Quaetz rears angrily, spitting starts of flame. Newt grunts haughtily, and turns away theatrically, and Hermann has to tighten his grip on the Quaetz to keep her from flying at Newton. Newt catches his eye and winks, then surreptitiously presses a second piece of ham in Hermann’s hand.

This time, when he offers it to the Quaetz, she snatches it in her claws and chews into it at once, snarling and bristling at Newt like an angry cat. After the first few rebellious bites, she swallows thoughtfully, and sets to it more enthusiastically, polishing off two more chunks before slowly eating half of a third and falling asleep in Hermann’s arms.

Newt and Hermann let out their breath almost at the same moment, glance at each other, and Newton laughs. Hermann smiles, “That should save your treasury, at least.”

“Oh, screw the treasury.” Newt rolls his eyes. “We could sell the lot and replace it with gilt and cut glass and hardly anyone would notice. Like I’d let her starve.” He strokes the Quaetz’s back, his fingers brush against Hermann’s.

“Thank you.” Hermann smiles, then, as though to remind them, his stomach growls.

Hermann blushes scarlet, and Newt laughs. “Okay, we’ll go out and eat. We don’t want you to starve either.”

 

* * *

 

Perhaps it is the constant exposure, but Hermann feels little more than a tremor deep in his stomach when they approach Newton’s dragon. They’re curled up on the hillside outside the castle, fast asleep and apparently unbothered by the cold.

Newton’s eyes light up brighter than the rising sun and he grins dazzlingly; it draws a sweet flash of warmth from somewhere deep within Hermann.

But the smile is not turned to him. Newt picks up his pace so that Hermann has to stumble to keep up, and calls out to the dragon.

Hermann’s pace slows slightly, because despite the exposure- this dragon is big. Not as huge as Cook, but bigger than the one that haunts Hermann’s nightmares. It is heavy and dark blue, and stirs when Newt approaches, slowly uncoiling and lifting its head sleepily.

The dragon is large, but there is something about it that makes it seem bigger still. It is all out of proportion- a massive, oversized head with impossibly swollen, bulbous eyes. It has no front limbs like every other dragon Hermann has heard of, propping itself up on its wings instead. And those too seem overlarge and heavy, tips dragging along the grass as it lopes forward, short hind-legs hopping clumsily, thick, massive tail thumping the ground.

Newt does not even hesitate, just breaks into a run, and as large and frightening and utterly _strange_ as this dragon is- for a moment it and Newt have exactly the same expression- absolute, excited delight.

Newt jumps just as the dragon ducks their head, and lands across its snout. The dragon snorts and jerks its head up, bouncing a laughing Newton, who is only just hanging on. Hermann picks up his pace, wondering if Newt will be sent flying by an over-enthusiastic toss of the head.

Then the dragon lowers their head and Newton slides off, still laughing. “Hermann! Hermann, this is Kodachi! Kodachi, Hermann.”

The dragon- Kodachi- turns to him, blinking enormous eyes. He doesn’t look as hostile or angry as the others Hermann has met, just looking at him curiously. He slowly comes closer, and Kodachi thrusts his head forward, sniffing, and turning his head one way, then the other, focusing each eye independently.

Newton smiles encouragingly. Hermann draws in a breath, and comes closer still. Kodachi smells of smoke and heat, his body raising heat shimmers in the chill air. The smell is so familiar, and for a moment Hermann trembles, again hearing the roar of the enraged dragon, the burning bite of its claws.

Kodachi’s claws are massive, outsized, his teeth jutting everyway from heavy jaws. Hermann takes a deep breath and walks right up to him, looking up into great green eyes. He hesitates, unsure as to what to do now. Does he touch the blue scaled snout? Hold out his hand for the dragon to smell?

Then, Kodachi lifts his head, then inclining it in a sort of bow, and grumbling deep in his throat.

Hermann looks helpless at Newton, was this a hello? A ‘nice to meet you’? A warning or a threat?

Newt is still smiling; he comes up next to Hermann. “You need to bow,” Hermann nods uncertainly, and bends forwards stiffly, “Then you need to say,” Newt makes the same sound as the dragon, deep and growling and far too low for Hermann to pronounce- almost too low for him to _hear_.

He tries anyway. Newt winces, and Kodachi laughs, a deep almost-chirp.

A hiss catches their attention. In his arms, the Quaetz has woken, and is spitting at the enormous Kodachi. The other dragon snorts, snaps his head back and flares bony head frills, as though he didn’t look big enough already. Hermann takes a step back.

Newt growls warningly, then “Grow up-” and slaps Kodachi across the muzzle.

The dragon blinks, and lowers his head as though embarrassed, frills falling flat to his neck. The Quaetz trills in triumph, and Kodachi snarls back.

“Sorry,” Newt rolls his eyes. “He’s such a _child_ \- she hatched yesterday you twit-“ He hisses and snorts.

And now, Hermann can see it too. The overlarge head, the big eyes, the floppy wings, the lolloping feet- Kodachi is a _child_ , an enormous, outsized hatchling. He growls and grumbles, and sticks his head under a wing and sulks.

The Quaetz curls in his arms, hissing smugly. “Hush.” Hermann strokes her, “Don’t you start.” He can’t drag his eyes off of the enormous hatchling- how large would he grow, at this rate?

Newt settles down on the grass, leaning against Kodachi’s flank. “Come on, he’ll get over himself, let’s eat.”

Hermann eases himself down and sits on the dewy grass. Kodachi is hot against his back, and the ground under them surprisingly is too. The ground is warm, probably more by the hot springs under the castle than the faint rising sun. With Kodachi at his back, the Quaetz in his lap and Newt at his side, the ground soft and warm under all of them, the cold is no discomfort. Newt hands him his share of breakfast- wheat cakes still hot from the over and sticky with honey. The spiced ham. Cold chicken from last night’s feast. Sweet little apples, the first harvest of autumn.

The Quaetz does not wait to be offered anything now, scrambling over and digging into the ham and chicken, head darting in and out, shreds of meat and cooked skin streaking her feathers. Newt looks at them over his wheatcakes, eyes crinkling in a smile. Hermann swallows, shifts a little over, and leans against his husband. Newton makes a small, happy sound, and tucks an arm around him, the heat of his body washing through Hermann.

Newt leans in, hesitates, Hermann smiles, and closes the space between them invitingly; Newton’s lips press soft tracework in the corner of his eye.

Hermann closes his eyes, the smell of the food cuts through the smoke scent of the dragon, Newt is close to him, hands slipping into his. He is warm and fed and he is with two people who- who _care_ about him. It’s a strange feeling, and he only allows himself a few moments of it before shying away. To trust in this, after so short a time- there is nothing to prove that the Quaetz will turn from him where she is grown enough not to need him, that Newt will not grow bored with him and search out a – better partner. Someone who is beautiful, who his kingdom does not hate.

Kodachi’s body curls towards them, his head coming around and resting just by Newt. Newton smiles, and scratches Kodachi under his head plates. Hermann checks on the Quaetz, but she’s fallen asleep again. He touches the outline of her body; it’s been only a few hours, and two meals, but she does look larger now, plumper in the belly, longer in the wings and tail. Her feathers are broader and brighter.

“How big will she grow?” The words slip out almost before he’s aware of them.

“Hmm?” Newt looks at them. “Gods, I don’t know. I don’t think anyone here has ever seen a Quaetz before. We might have something in the library, but-“

Hermann sits up and- he doesn’t care how rude it is, this might be the best thing he’s heard since coming here. “You have a library?”

Newt blinks at being interrupted, then grins. “Yeah. Probably not as nice as your southern ones, but we’ve got a lot of dragon books. Father-“ He hesitates, “Father bought them for me.” His smile fails, and it’s like the sun falling behind a cloud.

Hermann tries to remember when Newton had come to the throne- very recently, he thinks. “I’m sorry.” He touches Newt’s shoulder.

Newt starts to shrug him off, then stops, shoulders falling in a sigh. “Yeah.” Kodachi butts into Newt’s leg, and he smiles a little. “Yeah, you miss him too don’t you?” He scratches behind the dragon’s bones plates, and Kodachi growls happily.

Hermann hesitates, uncertain what to say, how to mourn someone he had never known- who, for so much of his life had been a figure of fear or a threat by nursemaids – _be good or the Dragonking will get you_ -

But Newton is mourning him, and if the old king had been anything like this one, he would have been kind. “I would have liked to meet him.” Hermann attempts.

This gets a real smile from Newt. “Yeah, I wish you could have. He’d have liked you. He loved magic, and Illia said we hardly had a library before him.”

He touches Hermann’s hand, and Hermann turns it up so their fingers can interlace. Then Newt brightens, “And hey, if you bring your spellbooks up, Tendo will be over the moon.”

Hermann looks away, uncertainly; he’s not entirely sure what his own father would say to that. Probably call him a traitor to his country and disown him. Hermann shakes his head, brushing it off. If Lars had cared, he would not have sold him off. Let them borrow his books. If it was Newt’s father’s dream, he’d be happy to. “I will have them back?”

“Oh, of course, Tendo’ll just make copies. The mages in Icesea will give their front teeth for like, three pages. They’ll hit the roof.” Newt smiles, and Hermann can’t help but smile back.

“If they have books about her, it would be good to know what to expect.” He toys with the Quaetz’ feathers, her soft, sleepy body. “It- it is _exhausting_ , panicking every moment.”

“Hey.” Newton squeezes him a little, “It’ll be fine. I promise. I won’t let anything happen to her. Illia won’t either.”

Hermann nods, looks down at the sleeping dragon, over to Kodachi, looking up at them thoughtfully from the grass, to Newton, smiling bright as sunlight. Again, the bright feeling deep inside him, the joy, their bodies warm around him, their eyes kind.

 

* * *

 

Tendo Choi almost goes cross-eyed when he sees them come in, Hermann carefully carrying one of his books. Newt doesn’t blame him. There is more magical power in Hermann’s hands now than could be scraped up by all the mages in the Icesea.

He doesn’t forget everything though- “Hey-hey hey-“ He gets to his feet, “Out out out!”

Kodachi has just pushed his head in hopefully. “Oh, come on-” Newt wheedles- hey, ten thousandth time lucky-

“Nope, nope-“ Tendo pushes Kodachi’s head out and closes the door in his face “You’re too big and you’re not knocking over any more bookshelves!” He shouts through the wood.

“Tendo-“ Newt gets a finger pointed in his face.

“No.” Tendo doesn’t blink. “I’ve got the General and the kids here; we don’t have room for _him_.”

Hermann blinks, eyes flicking between them uncertainly. Newt sighs, slumping a little. If cook is king of the kitchen, then Tendo is king of the library. Newt is king of- well, the kingdom, but that seems to end on his own doorstep.

Tendo raises his eyebrows and Newt rolls his eyes and nods. “Thank you, your majesty.”

Tendo turns and smiles at Hermann, the thousand candle; million gold piece grin that’s made Newt‘s knees go weak and his clothes come off more than once. Hermann smiles back uncertainly. His fingers are tight on the book’s binding, and Newt remembers how hard Hermann had fought not to lose those books.

“Are those- ye gods, did you bring that with you-“ Tendo walks over and touches the leather very gently. “I don’t know if Newt’s told you how rare these are here-“

Hermann looks lost again; hanging on to the book like it's his last anchor to the world. Around his neck, the Quaetz coils herself tighter and smokes warningly.

“Hey, Tendo. Tendo!” Tendo turns. Newt raises his eyebrows, “Tendo, this is _his Highness_ Prince Hermann, thirdborn child of the Southern Kingdom, now _my husband_ and Prince of the Dragonlands. Hermann? This is Tendo Choi, head librarian here.”

Tendo glances at Newt, mildly surprised, but gives Hermann a slightly more mellow; easy smile. “Forgive me Prince, I got a bit carried away.”

Hermann looks between him and Newt, and relaxes a little, the Quaetz ducks her head into the hollow of his neck and Hermann manages a smile. “It is a pleasure to meet you. Newton told me you would like to see my books.” He hesitates, then offers the tome.

Tendo takes it reverently, “How many do you have?”

“Five, but- when you are finished, if I could-“

“He wants them back Tendo. At once.” Newt puts in.

“I’ll have the scribes on it right now.” Tendo promises.

“The quicker you finish with it, the quicker you get the next one.” Newt adds.

 

* * *

 

Tendo grins. “You’ll get it back by tomorrow.” He promises Hermann. “Now, can I get you anything?”

“I-“ Hermann looks between them, then down at the Quaetz, he takes a breath. “Do you have anything on Dragons of Miclan?” He touches her feathers gently, and the Quaetz hisses. “She is very young and I need to know what to expect-“

“Just a moment.” Tendo turns away and starts through the shelves. There seems to be no clear order in the books, but he pulls down three consecutive volumes and hands them to Hermann. “There, it won’t be much, but there should be some references.”

Hermann glances down at the tomes, _Travels of Sia Grahm, vol 3_ ; _The People of Nahuatl_ ; _Dragons of the Islands South_.

“This might be better.” Tendo hands him a much smaller book, little more than a pamphlet. Unlike the books, which are handwritten, this looks to have been printed, _Three Voyages from Tottenlea_.

Newt smiles and takes the pamphlet. “Or you could ask the author.” He nods at the stacks, and Hermann sees the signature at the front of the book. _Captain Stacker Pentecost_.

Hermann takes the book out of his hands and opens it, flicking through to the pages on Mictlan. There is little there; most of it is on the human population, their traditions and culture, but on one double spread there is an engraving- clearly from a rough sketch, showing a great, feathered serpent coiled around a triangular structure. There’s no way of gauging scale, but the crest and build of the creature is very familiar. The Quaetz leans over his shoulder and hisses in surprise at the image of what must be a sister Quaetz, spitting a few bright sparks.

Tendo turns quickly back to him. “No fire in the library!” He points a finger under the Quaetz’s nose.

Newt rolls his eyes. “Oh come on, she’s only two days old, she doesn’t understand-“

“Then she can join Mako and the rest for lessons- anyone making open fire in the library _gets thrown out_ , no except- ow!”

The Quaetz hadn’t been able to resist the temptation of the offered finger, and Hermann was just a little too slow in catching her. “I’m sorry.”

Tendo shakes his finger and sighs, “Okay, my fault. Baby dragons.”

Hermann glances down at the pages again, the coiled Quaetz. There is little written about them even in this book, just a short paragraph about the feathered dragon god-kings of Mictlan, mostly kept apart and rarely abasing themselves to being seen by those outside their faith. “Is it possible to talk with General Pentecost?”

Tendo glances at Newt and then back at Hermann, smiling. “Of course the General will make time for a _Prince_ , sure.”

The side room holds what seems like a small crowd. General Pentecost, in neat formal dress of dark blue, sitting beside a large dragon, its tail curling around the walls to fit in the small room, scales a dark, grey-tinged yellow. Within the arch of its wings are two more dragons, youngsters the size of large dogs, one the same dull yellow as the larger, the other-

Hermann knows that breed. Greyish green, with large, marbled scales. It’s the same breed he sees every night, and his eyes are dragged down to the creature’s claws, resting on the low table. His leg aches dully. The dragon hunches its back and flares its wings, and the last member of the little group puts a hand on its snout. A young girl, no more than eight years old, with a round, solemn face and traits of the Nippon islanders.

General Pentecost smiles, warm and welcoming. “Good morning Your Highness. Have you come to share our study session?”

The young yellow dragon hisses angrily, and the older cuffs it with a growl; they glower at each other for a moment and Hermann wonders in a panic if they are about to fight- right here, among the shelves upon shelves of paper and parchment-

Then the younger one curls up sulkily, head under its tail, and the older one snorts and growls something to the General.

Newt jumps in, hissing, and the dragon jerks its head back, grumbling something back. Hermann drags his eyes off the monster, focusing on Pentecost, who smiles.

"Yes, may I introduce my second in command, Captain Hansen, his son, and my protégés, Mako and Raleigh.”

Hermann inclines his head in the appropriate bow, and the girl and the green dragon bow back- the dragon a little reluctantly; “I- librarian Choi informed me you had traveled to Mictlan, I wondered if you had encountered a Quaetz there,” He touches the Quaetz’s crest, and she trills softly.

Pentecost stands slowly, and steps over to him, the dragons crane their necks, and miss Mako climbs up on the table to take a close look; Hermann swallows, and tightens his grip on her a little, struggling to hold his ground.

“I did, briefly,” he holds out his fingers to the Quaetz, who sniffs them disapprovingly, “She has grown quite a lot since yesterday.”

“Yes,” Hermann manages a smile, “She has not stopped eating, do you know how large she will grow, or- how long she will live-“

He sighs and shakes his head, “The Nahuatl are rather protective of their gods but- did Tendo give you my book? Thank you-“ He opens the book to the engraving of the Quaetz, “I saw that one quite briefly, from a distance. There was a ceremony going on-“ He taps the very top of the great, triangular structure the dragon is coiled on, and now, looking closer, Hermann can make out tiny human figures at the very top. “But how old this one was- they say the dragons live forever, so who knows how long it took this one to grow so large-“

So large, the triangular temple is the size of a moderate castle, and the dragon coils around it like a snake around a stick. It’s so huge Hermann can’t even be frightened of the idea- it’s simply unreal, and to imagine the Quaetz could grow so large- Hermann looks at her, and she meets his eyes, hissing, then nuzzling under his chin. Hermann strokes her back gently, and she purrs.

“I am sorry, but I doubt there is anyone North of Mictlan itself would could tell you more,”

The Quaetz slips down over his arms, settles on the table top and sniffs at Mako. Mako kneels down carefully, trills something to her, but she just blinks, and backsaway when Mako reaches for her, spitting warning sparks.

“Mako,” Pentecost turns, “She is only two days old, she cannot speak yet.”

Mako backs away, looking a little shamefaced, she bows a short apology before settling back beside the grey-green dragon, and Hermann fights the urge to snatch her away from the beast.

“Would you like to join us?” Her voice is soft, accented, she chooses her words carefully, “We are learning the dragon tongue, perhaps she could learn with us?”

Hermann hesitates, glances at Newt, part of him very much wants to leave- away from the strange beasts and the smaller, deadly form of the moss-green dragon. But Newt smiles, "Hey, that's a good idea. It'll be great if you learn some of it too- everyone knows a bit- you just need it to get around."

"Couldn't I learn with you?" Hermann tries not to sound as desperate as he feels, to be left alone here; with the scorn in the yellows dragons’ eyes, the loathing in the green's.

Pentecost leans in a little, “His Majesty’s grasp of the dragon tongue is- unmatched, which is the problem. There are parts of their speech we cannot hear or distinguish, which he can. Unless you have the gift- I would suggest you learn with us. He has attempted to teach us in the past, and it was never a success."

Newt sighs, "I was saying everything fine- why couldn't you-" He sees how they are all looking at him, and then sighs again, and shrugs.

Mako takes his hand, and Hermann slowly lowers himself to the cushions around the low tables, laying his staff flat on the cushions beside him. The Quaetz curls up around his hands and falls asleep. Newt flops down beside him.

The grey-green dragon curls up on itself, hissing, and Hermann tenses. Mako touches its muzzle and Hermann clenches his fists against the urge to call up a spell- the girl is a quarter of the size of the dragon- it could snap her in half with a single bite- could tear her apart with its claws-

But it calms, and sighs, dropping its head in Mako’s lap and closes its eyes.

Newt touches his shoulder, "I'll be in the stacks- don't worry I won't be far, but I'll make sure Tendo doesn't run off with your book-"

"I heard that!"

He sighs and shrugs, "Anyway, I'll come and get you for lunch, okay?"

"We can have it brought up to us," Pentecost opens a large book and lays it down on the table.

Hermann looks up at Newton and silently begs him not to go. Pentecost has been kind to him and Mako seems decent, but they are _human_ , the three dragons coiled around the table have no love for him.

He may technically be wed to Newton, but this place seems staggeringly informal- and who is to say he would be the first consort fed to the dragons for displeasing them?

"Now," Pentecost's voice cuts into the wild fear, "We are starting the written language first- it is the most reliable way of communicating, but we will have conversations in both languages, for your hatchling's sake- you may want to wake her in fact."

Hermann starts a little at the address, and gently shakes the Quaetz, she blinks and chirps, lifting her head above the tabletop and looking owlishly around her. Hermann hushes her when she starts to bristle at the green dragon, not wanting to draw yet more bad attention.

Pentecost turns the book so he and Mako can see it, and starts explaining the alphabet.

The Captain joins in for the dragons, voice deep and guttural, claws huge and heavy, capped in brass that glints as he gestures. Hermann cannot takes his eyes off them until the Quaetz nudges him, wanting to be picked up and put on the table to see better.

 

* * *

 

Lunch is brought up to them, and when they take a break Hermann's head is spinning. He watches Newton talking to the young yellow with no small amount of amazement. The dragon tongue is impossible, there are sound too high or too low for humans to even hear, others that would require horns or trumpets to render correctly, even the greatest experts can do little more than a pidgin approximation.

And the human tongue was little better to the dragons, requiring shapes with tongues and mouths and lips that the dragons could not even approximate. How could anyone resolve treaties and agreements in such disparate languages?

"Have the rulers always had this- gift?" He asks Pentecost as they settle to eat- Tendo having very grudgingly given permission.

Pentecost shakes his head, "Newton is the first, his father- King Jacob-" and there is no mistaking the sorrow in the man’s eyes when he says the name, "Had hoped such a trait would pass into his line," He pauses again, as though unsure how to continue- and Hermann doesn't know how to ask, it all sounds like fuel for an almighty scandal back South- although perhaps not here?

"He means," Newt drops down to sit next to him- almost in his lap. Hermann starts at the sudden closeness, but his body relaxes almost at once at the now-familiar warmth and contours of his husband's body. Newton smiles and slides the platter of bread, cold meats and fruit in his direction, "that Dad found Mom and asked very nicely if they could have me." He snatches a scrap of honey bread and stuffs it into Hermann's half-open mouth.

Hermann covers his mouth- embarrassed as much by his shock and by Newt's- _infantile_ actions and distracted somewhat by the sudden burst of sweetness and the crunch of almonds. The time it takes to chew and swallow gives him a desperately needed respite: in the south Newton would have been considered a bastard at _best,_ let alone the best eligible heir to the throne-

"The Lady of the Highlands is- a sorceress of no small power." Pentecost continues, "And the only known human who can converse with dragons. Jacob believed a union of blood would bless his line."

Newt shrugs, "It's not like he didn't care for her," and despite the flippancy of his words, Hermann feels Newt move that little bit closer to him. He frees a hand, and finds Newt's, and gets a tiny, secret smile in response. "She couldn't live in the castle- it took me a while too."

And now- Hermann can see it. The brightness in Newt's eyes, the tanned skin, the untamable hair. The calluses on his palms and fingers- He's half-wild himself. Hermann smiles and tightens his grip a little. Perhaps he has that to thank. A husband who was all a noble- like the courtiers and fawning emissaries of his father's court- would have been cruel, or uncaring to him, seeing only the value that he represented.

But Newton- raised far from court, who worked with his hands and rode in the sun and- yes- loved dragons- had seen him, scared and alone, and had been kind. Hermann smiles, opens him mouth to say something- he has no idea what- and receives another mouthful of honeybread.

He chokes, tries to say something and sprays crumbs- "Eat!" Newt nudges him, "And stop getting crumbs everywhere, Tendo is going to kill us."

This is so _unfair_ Hermann chokes again, trying to marshal the words, but by the time his mouth is empty, the Quaetz is at his knee, chirruping to be picked up and allowed to get at the food.

 

* * *

 

By supper, Hermann is beginning to recognise some of the sigils in the book, and the Quaetz's hisses and chirps seem to be gaining more form and regularity. The two yellow dragons have stopped glaring at him, at least; although Hermann saw the larger one discreetly cuff the smaller after a particularly sharp glance.

The green seems to have taken to pretending Hermann isn't there, which he is almost painfully grateful for. It's not much smaller than the one he killed, and last night's dream comes back vividly every time it looks at him- those teeth, that fire-

Those claws, latching into his flesh with the final desperate strength of the dying, sinking deep even as the fire in its green eyes goes out, falling still until his screams are the only sounds in the empty cave.

Mako takes his right as they walk down the stairs, falling in step with the thump of his staff, Newt and Pentecost on his left. She smiles at him, then glances back to where the green is snapping and feinting at the small yellow, her round, young face suddenly solemn. "He lost his brother in the south."

Hermann blinks, he looks behind him and the green catches his eye, he bristles, half curls and the Quaetz hisses a warning from Hermann's shoulder. He tears his eyes away, Newt and Pentecost are pretending not to notice anything, but he sees them sharing glances. "His brother was- killed?"

Mako nods. "Last month. They were trying to come north."

Hermann can't remember if any nobles had been on a trophy hunt recently. There had been some for centrepieces for the feast celebrating Hermann's engagement, but those had been tiny- hatchlings-

_The great hammers of the killing crew, rushing in to crush the dragon's eggs and take her head. None of them so much as looking at him until the ceremonies had been completed, and Karla had run in to pull the dragon off him and takeitsclaws out of his leg. Lars' cold eyes as he observed the operation, scornful to Hermann’s pain._

He shudders, turns away and forces his mind away from the memories. It must have been a merchant that killed the green's brother. There were more and more of them hunting these days, looking for a noble's trophy to raise themselves up. His father had been complaining about them- those hunts left nothing but young dragons for the rightful hunters.

Newt takes his arm as they enter the hall. Hermann straightens at the sight of the great tables, filled with nobles and courtiers and servitors- and dragons.

Dragons before him, dragons behind him. Hermann looks down and the Quaetz chirps, he manages a smile- a dragon in his arms as well.

They are seated at the high table, Pentecost smiles and clasps Mako on the shoulder, she smiles and goes to the next table down with the Captain, the young yellow- and the green. Hermann breathes in relief as they blend in with the great crowd.

Illia looks down at the Quaetz, and his eyebrows rise a little as she scrabbles onto the table eagerly- she’s already learnt this place means food- Hermann strokes her back and she purrs, and Illia _almost_ smiles.

Newt nudges him, smiling. Hermann leans closer to hear; “They’ve gotten everything ready- you’ll love this.”

The tables at the centre of the room have been moved aside, and Illia’s maybe-smile turns into a broad grin as a small group of -what seem to Hermann to be acrobats- come in and bow to the table.

Newt starts clapping almost at once, getting a quelling look from Illia and some reciprocal applause from the crowd. The Cook, and a platoon of smaller dragons come in, carrying what must be twice their own weight in meat- whole oxen and pigs, joints of mutton, chickens, ducks and pheasants still unplucked.

They bow too, and this time Illia applauds. Then the drums start.

The sound rattles the cutlery, and everyone- Newt, Illia, even Pentecost, clap and stamp in unison. Hermann can see Mako bouncing in her seat in time with the beat. The dragons parade the meats and- as if by some unseen cue- breathe flame in unison.

Seven jets of flame, red, yellow, nearly white from the great Cook’s jaws. It’s hypnotizing, one taking over after another- red to cook the meat within, white to crisp the skin. The Quaetz mewls softly, frozen in place. Hermann gathers her up and holds her close. She trembles at the sight- this display so far beyond what she is capable of.

Newt tears his eyes away from the display and stops clapping, leaning down to murmur comfort to the small dragon. She blinks at him; and for once, does not seem to mind him, burying her face in his sleeves. Newt looks up and meets Hermann’s eyes. They both cannot help but smile.

The smell of roasting meat is tantalizing, pork and beef and the crisp sweetness of lamb. The drumbeats become faster, and the human performers pick up long knives and begin a juggling act.

It’s very skillful, the knives flipping and spinning through the air as the jugglers toss them to each other, dancing back and forth among the dragons, slipping almost effortlessly through the deadly streams of fire, the knifes flashing and gleaming the colours of fire.

It’s all very nice, but now Hermann is starting to get very hungry, and he cannot help but think how nice it would be to watch this while eating some of those wonderful roasts. The Quaetz seems to have gotten over her fear, and curls and uncurls in his lap, grumbling and hissing to herself. He glances at Newt who smiles and nods at the performers.

The Quaetz chirps at him, questioningly; Hermann shrugs.

The drumming grows faster still, and the hall breaks out in cheers. Plates start to fly from outside the great doors, snatched out of the air by the acrobats in flips and cartwheels. When each of them has a plate, they dance back in through the flames, the dragons now beating out even bursts in time with the drum beat. The acrobats sway through and the knives dance in their hands again, cutting off perfectly roasted slices of roast pork and lamb and carving up chickens and ducks with exact, calculated slashes of their knives.

Newt cheers and claps, and even Illia is applauding, the dancers fill each plate with delicious, succulent cuts, one plate per roast and dance their way, flipping and rolling- never so much as losing a scrap- to the high table.

The drums stop as they all land on their feet before the high tables, and bow in unison. The room erupts in applause, and Hermann cannot help but join it- although he cannot manage more than a few claps before he has to restrain the Quaetz, who had launched herself at the platters of steaming meat.

They are on the table in the next moment, and servants hurry up with the accompanying platters- fish and fruits and vegetables- and spices, each plate is seasons before being presented.

“They’re good aren’t they?” Newt enthuses, as the acrobats return to serve more cuts to the lower tables, and servants retreat. “They’re not on every day, but it’s great when they can perform. Cook does a great job and they’re all great chefs. Here-“ he stabs a few neat slices of lamb, a wing of pheasant and heaves it on Hermann’s plate, “Try it, it’s amazing-“

Hermann barely gets a bite in before the Quaetz is on the meat, her head darting in and great, hungry chunks of meat are vanishing down her throat.

“I see you’ve got her eating meat,” Illia nods approvingly.

“Yeah, Hermann’s been doing a great job with her.” Newt leans over him, raising his eyebrows, “He spent all day in the library, seeing to her education.”

Illia grunts, and Pentecost chimes in, “They were a very welcome addition to our little study group, Mako in particular appreciated Prince Hermann’s presence.”

Hermann cannot think of anything to say, as Illia grunts and looks uncomfortable. Newton and Pentecost are looking at him; long, meaningful looks. He is spared having to speak when the Quaetz slows eating, belches, and slumps on her rounded side, purring happily and half asleep.

Newt laughs, and fills Hermann’s plate again, “Maybe you’ll get to have a bite this time.”

The pheasant is tender, moist and juicy, the pork all but melts in his mouth, the lamb so sweet it is as though it was dipped in honey. It is all delicious, and the moment, at least, is gone; the four of them busy eating.

Sauces are paraded through, wine and liquor and iced drinks are poured into their goblets. The acrobats dance and slice and the plates spin gracefully as they land before the delighted revelers.

The noise is high, but happy; Hermann cannot help but smile- even when a chicken goes astray and flies across the room- and the green dragon snakes his head out and snatches it out of the air. The table cheers, and the dragon lowers the roast to share with Mako. It is unlike anything Hermann has ever seen or heard of. Everyone is talking- quite loudly in order to be heard over everyone else- Illia and Pentecost have their heads together, and Newt is chattering happily to Kodachi, who has poked his head over the back of his chair and occasionally snatches at a leg of lamb or joint of pork.

It had been- different, in the South. Hermann does not want to say _worse,_ it feels traitorous. But- everything had been ritualized. They descended in order, first father, then mother, the Dietrich; first born and heir. Then Karla; military commander and general. Then Hermann and Bastian. Hermann of no great interest, Bastian the youngest, round-faced and solemn even as a child.

They would seat in that order, eat in that order. And by the time the food had reached the table, it was barely warm. It looked wonderful- the best their most talented chefs could turn out- and impressed all those watching, but the long walk from the kitchens meant it never tasted good, and they all had to eat, to keep up appearances. And in silence, to maintain dignity; the only conversation carefully scripted for those watching- and Hermann was never considered to have anything worthwhile to say.

Newt turns to him, and the glow of the room, the heat, are nothing to his smile. “Pretty fun, yeah?”

Hermann smiles and nods, and the next course arrives- a desert of gleaming ices- already starting to melt in the heat, and fruit pies and tarts. The Quaetz raises her sleepy head and chirps as a spiced apple tart lands close to her, but manages no more than two bites of the crust before she sighs and huddles into her feathers again, fluffing and going back to sleep.

Hermann is starting to feel ready for sleep too; it has been a very long day- and a very strange one. The meat and sweet vegetables and fruit are warm in his belly, and the thought of that large bed, and Newt- so full of fear only a few days ago- now just inspires longing.

When he and Newt rise, so does the rest of the hall. On the table, the Quaetz raises her head. Hermann holds out his arms and she sits up, wings fluttering, half flying and half jumping at him.

“Ah!” Gods, she’s _heavy_. He has never seen anything put on weight and _grow_ at the rate the Quaetz is. Just over two days, and she has more than doubled in size, and more than tripled in weight. Hermann manages to steady her and get his balance on his staff. Newt puts an arm around his waist.

They bow, and the hall bows to them. It may be Hermann’s imagination, or might be the influence of so much delicious food, but there seem to be rather fewer ugly looks coming his way, even from the dragons.

The servants have laid out their sleep clothes on the bed, stoked up the fire and laid out bowls of spiced meat for the Quaetz; a large tub of hot water is waiting beside the fire. Newt closes the windows and the curtains with a sigh, and starts stripping off his clothes.

Hermann hesitates for a moment but- Newton has not done anything he did not ask for, and that tub does look so good. The Quaetz sits on her hind legs and extends her neck- only just able to stick her muzzle over the edge and look in. She sniffs twice, then pulls back, obviously not interested.

“Come on,” Newt is down to his smallclothes, in the flickering light of the candles and the fireplace, the dragons on his skin seem to writhe. “There’s room for two.” He loses the last of the cloth, and slides into the water with a sigh.

Hermann nods, and works on his clothes. The fastenings are still strange to his hands, although the clothes themselves are far less ornate than those in the south. It takes him a few moments to strip, and Newt sighs, “It’s getting cold.”

“All right, all right.” Hermann stretches, his leg aches and his joints pop.

His leg aches less than it usually would- keeping the weight off it seems to be working- and the _relief_ when he slides into the warm water banishes any thought of soreness from his mind. He tucks his legs on either side of Newt’s body, and Newt covers the scar with his hand. Hermann sighs happily, the light pressure of his hand, the heat of his body, it’s all lovely. Newton smiles, and rubs the heel of his hand in soft circles, it feels so _good_.

“You look so good.” Newt murmurs. His hand strokes up a little, over the inside of his thigh- where the skin is so tender Hermann shivers at the contact. “You’re so gorgeous, you know that?”

Hermann shakes his head. “I’m not.”

“You are.” Newt sits up, a soft wave of warm water washes over Hermann’s belly. His hands go to his knees, pulling his legs apart a little. “You are so beautiful-“ Newt leans in, but not quite enough.

Hermann closes the gap; Newt’s mouth is soft, open, warm and willing. Hermann’s hands wander into Newt’s hair- half damp, half dry. The heat of his body, of the bath, of the fire- he’s floating in a cloud of heat and sweetness. Newt’s hands cradling him- up over his legs, over his hips, tickling under his ribs.

Their mouths move, lips damp, the brush of tongue against teeth. They pull apart and Newt is grinning. His hand skates down Hermann’s chest, over his abdomen-

“No,” he gasps.

Newt freezes, and pulls his hand away. “No?”

Hermann shakes his hand. He feels awful. It would be better if he- _didn’t_ want it. If so much of him wasn’t so eager for Newt to continue- his hands and his mouth and that gorgeous, sweet cock; curling up against his belly. “I’m too tired,” he tries to smile.

Newt smiles again, relieved. “Oh, okay.” He shifts over, and settles next to Hermann in the tub. It rocks a little. Hermann untangles his arms, and puts them around Newt, who hums happily. “Do you mind if I –“

“Go on,” Hermann nuzzles his hair, enjoying the soft texture against his lips and cheeks.

It’s sweetly tempting, watching Newt take himself in hand and slowly work himself. The arousal is heavy in his belly, but his cock is not interested in anything but sleep. He leans his weight on Newt, and Newton hums happily.

It doesn’t take much, a few strokes and Newt is shuddering against him, gasping and jerking and almost tipping the tub over. He turns and smiles, bright and a little loopy, and Hermann has to catch his breath- he is dazzling, it seems impossible that such a beautiful man is looking at him like this- so happy, so sweet.

So he kisses him, before he can even think about it. Before the doubt and dread and catch him, their lips are soft together, and Newt is murmuring with surprise and happiness. Eyes glazed and satisfied when they part.

Newt lowers his head against his chest, sighs and smiles against his skin.

He could have stayed there all night, but despite the warmth of the fire, the water is growing cold, and Newt is half asleep already. Hermann stirs him, “We should go to bed.” He whispers.

“Hmm?” Newt yawns, and stretches, one arm almost clubbing Hermann around the head. “Yeah, right.” He half-climbs, half-rolls out, splattering water everywhere. Hermann sits up, starts to get out-

“No,” Newt smiles and pulls out a towel, “Here I can-“ He slips on the slick floor, almost falls and drops the towel.

Hermann smiles, and climbs out, stumbling a little. Newt catches him, they are so close, Hermann just wants to press close and hold him- but they are soaking wet, and he is starting to shiver even in the warm room.

Newt insists on taking the damp towel, wrapping Hermann up before scrubbing himself dry vigorously. Hermann smiles, watching him, and feels the faint tickle of feathers around his ankles. On the floor, the Quaetz is coiling herself around his feet. Hermann reaches down and picks her up; she’s as large as a terrier now- larger, with the bulk of her wings and tail. She curls in his arms, nuzzles his cheek, nosing at his ear. A laugh starts from his throat, surprising him. Newt hears it and turns, smiling, bundling the towel into a corner.

Newt is untying the bed hangings when she speaks, soft, sibilant- the sound of wind through summer grasses, “Toca.”

Hermann turns, blinks, looks into bright green eyes that look right at him. Perhaps it is his imagination, but there is more light- more awareness- in her eyes. “Toca?” He repeats back.

She purrs, “Toca.”

His hands brush her feathers, her neck, her sides. She glows like a sunset in the firelight. The bed dips beside him as Newt sits down, one arm slipping through his.

Hermann looks at him, then back at the Quaetz. “Toca.” He agrees, and strokes her crest.


	4. Landscape

Hermann dreams.

He is back at the evening's banquet, at the high table. But his seat is empty. He is lying on the table, among the plates of food; he shifts and his elbows bump into fruit decorations. His head is crowned with flowers, wound around his wrists and hips and ankles. He looks up, and into Newton's face. 

Into the face of a dragon.

It is lean and narrow, dark blue scales and horns that gleam gold. Small, no bigger than the head of a pony, delicate ridges and dark blue frills decorating its jaw and the sides of its head. It is beautiful. Hermann looks at it, all fear somehow gone, only a strange emptiness where it used to be, slowly filling with curiosity. The dragon looks back.

Its eyes are deep green and, somehow, there is something there that Hermann recognises as Newton. It is him regardless of the form, and Hermann smiles, reaching up a hand to touch his face.

It’s then he realises he is naked. Naked, and lying on a banqueting table on the delicate array of fruit and flowers. Lying on a silver platter among the beautiful bowls of delicacies. He has been served up on a silver platter to a dragon. He ought to be frightened, but he isn't, only hoping he is making a suitable centerpiece to the feast, that he is pleasing those about to eat him.

Newton lowers his head and the surprisingly soft skin of his muzzle trace down from Hermann's throat, across his chest, to the tender dip of his belly. He can feel the banked, boiling heat of his body, the flames barely kept in check, sweat breaking out from the proximity.

Hermann catches his face in both hands and pulls him back up. Those familiar green eyes blink at him, lazily, mouth parting to reveal sharp, narrow teeth.

And Hermann kisses him, kisses him to taste heat and spice and smoke and fire. The prick of those sharp teeth draws blood from his lips. Newton breaths out and the flame scorches his throat, peels the skin from his mouth, blackens his teeth. There is no pain, just an ache across his skin, a sense of loss as something within him is burnt away.

He mouths hungrily along the side of Newt's jaws, starving, open kisses and Newt responds, slipping up to the tables, straddling him; his sleek, heavy body pressing against Hermann's. The heat of him is incredible, like lying on bare rocks on the hottest day of summer. The heat is a living, liquid thing across his skin. The crisp dryness of scales so hot they almost burn, body moving languidly, hungrily across his. His tail lashing Hermann’s legs, claws cutting into the wood, pinioned wings beating, slowly, fanning the heat. Hermann’s hands grasp along Newton’s sides, catching on the curve and spines of his hips.

Hermann arches his back, pressing tight and hot and burning into Newton- no air between them, fused together by flame. His spine explodes from the heat, shatters. His skin sears, splits from the fire, and burns black.

Newt breathes flame into his mouth, in his throat, bursting in his lungs until he thinks his chest might split open with the force of it. Tongue moving and blending with his even as it burns, consumed with the flame-

Hermann wakes up with a jolt, drenched in sweat and so aroused it _hurts_ , cock hard enough to split rock. He rolls over, trying to find some relief- to free his hands from the blankets so he can take care of himself- and fetches up against his very human husband.

Newton is still asleep. Skin soft and scaleless, but as hot and as sweet as he had been as a dragon. Hermann leans in despite the sweaty dampness of the bedclothes - _more_ \- he reaches out and finds a shoulder, curls around a soft waist, the heat of Newt's skin is so intense and his cock _aches_ for it-

"Umff- wha- oh hey-" Newt mumbles and opens his eyes; hazy at first, then brightening. "Oh _hey."_

He rolls into where Hermann is almost _rutting_ against him with want, sliding in so they can move more comfortably. "Oh, wow. Um, this is good right? You want- yeah, of course you want- I'll just shut up-"

Hermann saves him the trouble and just kisses him and although there's no flames in his mouth it burns all the same. Their bodies are slick with sweat and it's easy to move. His hips rock against Newt's thigh, small circles at first because he's so tender any contact is almost painful, then harder, as Newt starts to move with him, arms wrapping around his shoulders and drawing closer, always closer until there is barely air to breathe in the furnace heat between them.

Newt's mouth finds his again, rough and wet and clumsy, Hermann frees a hand and grips his hair, holding him in place to kiss him as he grinds harder, Newt's cock is now iron hard and trapped against his stomach, wet and leaking.

"Oh gods, oh gods oh _godsgodsgodsfuckfuck_ -" Newt gasps into his mouth and Hermann thrusts too hard against him and they both roll back, Newton under him whining _fuckfuckohoh_ and wrapping his legs around his waist to reel them back together and Hermann's cock is pressed up under the taut, heavy weight of his balls and slipping to the cleft of his arse and it's so _good_ and explosive and oh sweet gods he needs _more_ it's too much-

" _Oh gods fuckme fuckme gorgeous wantyou wantyou in me now-"_ Newt babbles, rocking desperately against him, canting his hips higher.

"What?" Hermann gasps, even that one word getting lost somewhere on his tongue. He can barely _think_. His arms are trembling with the effort of holding him up, legs splayed out under Newt's hips. He has no idea what to do.

"Just- fuck!" Newt moans. "Come on, put it in me-" his face is twisted up with the strain, crumpled and shining with sweat.

"I'll- hurt you-" The words make it out. He is _so close_ , everything drawing down to the single point of orgasm.

"Like I- _oh god!_ " Newt shouts and comes across Hermann's belly in the same moment, hot and sticky and his whole body tensing so suddenly he almost crushes the breath from Hermann's body.

And there. That's enough. Hermann groans, a deep and satisfied sound totally alien to him. The tension suddenly peaks and unknots in the same moment and he comes in sudden, delicious jerks, and it's something beyond heat or cold and it feels _so good_ -

His arms give up the fight to hold him up and Newt catches him, arms coming up to wrap around him. It's hot, and sticky, and sweaty and disgusting, and he _doesn't care_.

"I'm sorry." Hermann manages, his throat is dry and for a moment he wonders if he can taste dragonfire.

"It's fine." Newt's fingers are carding through his hair, wandering to the short, shorn bristles at the nape of his neck.

"I never- I don't know how to-" Nothing beyond taunts and half-phrased dire warnings from his siblings, at least. Nothing anyone would _want_ ; let along beg for as Newt had done. He swallows, feels his face burn with its own heat. "Could you tell me how-" _how to have sex with you_? The words incinerate in his embarrassment before they can make it out.

"Sure!" Newt's voice squeaks high; and his cock twitches where it is trapped under Hermann's good leg. "You uh- well, what we were doing, basically. But you have to- um, get me a bit higher- then you put your- well your cock, I mean, inside me- and um, yeah-"

He trails off hopefully, leaving Hermann to puzzle out the mess of words. "Doesn't that hurt?" Hermann whispers against his chest, fingers tracing nonsense patterns across Newt's chest, absently following one line of ink, then another. "It sound like it would hurt."

"Not if you do it properly," Newt adds quickly. "If you know what you're doing and- do it right- I mean, then its- great! Like, really great, I mean-"

Hermann looks down at Newt's face. He's bright red, eyes darting to anywhere that isn't him. Then it dawns on him, sweet as sunlight on spring thaw, and he grins. "You," Hermann says slowly, deliberately, as the smile spreads, "have no idea what you're talking about."

"I do!" Newt protests too quickly, tries to sit up. "I do know! It's not like it's _complicated_ , everyone knows how to- um- have sex- and stuff." He trails off.

Hermann's smile is so wide it actually hurts. "But you've never done it, have you?"

Newt looks furious, bright red. "You don't need to- have done it to know something about-" He grumbles, trailing off. "I had a book, you know."

It's the last straw, Hermann bursts out laughing. He doesn't want to, can see Newt looks humiliated but he can't stop. It's too much of a relief. "I'm sorry." He manages, when he's caught his breath. "I didn't mean- could I see the book?"

Newt huffs, but leans over to the bedside cabinet and lights a candle. The room is still very dark, just before dawn. In the faint light Hermann can make out the glowing embers of the fire, and the coiled figure among them.

The book is very beautiful, leatherbound and solidly built. Newt opens it, still hunched defensively. Hermann lies down next to him against the headboard, and puts a hand on his shoulder. Newt unbends a little. "It's all right." Hermann runs his fingers over his shoulders, the light just enough for him to make out the lines of the dragon there- Otachi, Newton called her. "I don't know anything- it was forbidden, I couldn't learn about it or- anything else." He's blushing again. "It was just- a relief. I was frightened when I came here."

"I noticed." Newt sighs, and settles down to lie on his belly, book open on the pillow. The light plays over very- _vivid_ \- illustrations. Hermann slides down and rolls over, leaning his chin on Newt's shoulder. "Illia commissioned the book before they announced I was up for grabs, so I'd have some idea- I didn't really- I mean, I did a _bit,_ it wasn't forbidden or anything- but nothing like- that." He finishes weakly.

Hermann kisses an expanse of shoulder, and Newt smiles, one hand wandering over to settle in his. "Maybe we can find out together?" Newt's voice is a little brighter.

Hermann nods, and they settle down to start at the beginning.

The book is beautifully, carefully illustrated. The instructions are in depth and _very_ detailed, with step by step guides and every stage meticulously laid out.

In the hearth, Toca stirs at the soft whispers and giggles. She opens an eye at the thump when a stoutly bound book hits the floor. The bed creaks and she blinks at the murmurs, gasps and occasional wet sound from the bed. But it is all peaceful, and the embers are still warm, and she is weary. She curls up in the sparks and goes back to sleep.

 

* * *

 

 

They are late to breakfast. Hermann fumbles with the catches to his robes, only glad they are less complex than his old ones back home. If he had needed to sew himself into the meters and meters of robes and mantles and collars and lace that made up his prince's garments. 

Toca opens bright, jeweled eyes and slips out of the fireplace, her feathers trailing ash and drawing dark streaks along the hem of Hermann's robe as she coils around him. Hermann sighs and brushes her off before picking her up; he staggers under her weight, she wraps her body around his shoulders and hisses in his ear happily. She’s burning warm and smells like incense sweet from the spice. Her wings beat against his arms and she scrabbles and flutters up to curl across his shoulders, heavy like a gorgeous feather stole.

"You're adorable, both of you." Newt is dressed; he puts his arms around them.

Hermann closes his eyes, leaning in to the arms, the heat of Toca, of Newton's body. Heat, so intense his skin feels it as chill. Newton's mouth brushes over the back of his neck and Hermann feels his cock twitch inside his underclothes, even after their lovemaking.

Newton is so warm, inside and out.

Breakfast is half over when they descend. All heads turn to them and Hermann tenses. Toca curls and bristles, lifts her head and hisses. Hermann hushes and steadies her, but those eyes are not unfriendly. They look amused.

Illia is smiling when they approach the high table and are greeted. He tries to hide it behind his hand, but it’s there. Hermann sits in what seems to be becoming his usual seat, with Newton on his left and Pentecost on his right. The older man is smiling too, and it's so friendly, so warm, that it lights something inside Hermann and he cannot help but smile back.

"I know, I know-" Newt hops down beside him, and winces when he sits down too hard. "We’re late and all that-"

Illia holds up a hand to ward him off. "I won't reproach you for attending to royal duties." He tries to look solemn, but bites his lip.

Hermann feels his skin start to burn, and not with flame. Toca curls down off his shoulders to sit in his lap and he hides his face in her feathers.

Newt blinks, "That wasn't business, we were-"

"Newton!" Hermann wants to crawl under the table.

Newt finally catches on. "Oh!" He grins shamelessly. "I finally found something about this I like."

Illia frowns. "Have some dignity, please."

Hermann just tries to huddle in on himself further, grip tightening on Toca. She hisses in alarm and he hurriedly relaxes his grip, smoothing the ruffled feathers. The Quaetz chirps, and butts her narrow, arrow head against his cheek before leaping easily on the table and fluttering to her first plate. The table creaks a little under her weight; she flutters a little, alarmed, then eases back down and starts eating.

Hermann strokes her, trying very hard _not_ to make eye contact with anyone. Newt looks smug beside him, but Hermann notices, out of the corner of his eyes, as he pulls a plate of boiled eggs towards him, that he's wriggling a little in his seat, trying to find a comfortable position.

He did that. That was the work of his hands, his mouth, his cock. So hot and sweet and perfect he thought he'd die from it. The reminder of it makes him duck a smile into the bowl. Newt meets his eyes and _now_ he flushes, bright red and shameless.

Pentecost is looking at them, but pretends not to have seen anything. He hands Hermann a bowl of hard-boiled eggs.

Hermann waits until Toca has finished her bowl. Unlike yesterday she does not immediately leap to the next, but settles to clean her claws and preen her feathers. Hermann pours water into a small bowl and offers it to her. She trills and dips her head inside. Quickly shelling eggs, Hermann watches her throat swell and contract as she drinks, the feathers rippling through every shade of colour. Her lips are a darker grey when she comes back up, feathers damp and bedraggled where they had trailed in the water.

Toca sniffs at the bowl of eggs, uncertain at this new, strange food. Hermann remembers his horse, the grey gelding. He had got his horse while it was still very young, and he hadn't wanted to eat until he'd fed it by hand. He cuts one in half and offers it to her in his hand. Toca sniffs again, creeps a little closer. Hermann tickles her neck and she dips her head to nibble at the egg.

"Good girl."

Hermann shells a few more and starts eating himself. Toca sniffs at the discarded shells, the eggs are fresh and soft, still warm. Hermann eats half and offers the rest to Toca. A few more sniffs, and it disappears down her gullet too.

He looks up. Newt and Illia are watching him. Newt is grinning, and that makes him want to smile too. Illia is looking at him too, and he is not frowning. He glances down at Toca. "She's eating well?"

"Look at her." Newt reaches over and touches the Quaetz's flank. She hisses warningly. "See?"

Hermann can see it too. Her feathers are longer, thicker, her sides are full and comfortable- and larger, always larger, bigger than a hunting dog.

"Well, carry on then" He nods stiffly, then turns back to his fried fish.

Newt touches his arm. "You want to go? Maybe I can show you more of the castle."

Pentecost smiles as they get up, "We will meet at the library after lunch; will you be joining us again?"

Hermann smiles genuinely, "I would like that."

Toca turns, and blinks at Pentecost. Her gaze is steady and open, unlike the coiled wariness she's displayed before. She is simply looking, curious.

Hermann grabs two apples and tucks them into his tunic. He gets up and Toca hops up into his arms, then to his shoulders. She's heavier from the food; he stumbles a little and leans more heavily on the staff.

Newt takes his free hand, comes in so close that Toca hisses, then pauses. She blinks, so close to Hermann's face he can see the tiny, fine bristles that serve her for eyelashes, those huge, liquid green eyes.

"There you are," Newt smiles, and holds fingertips to her muzzle.

She draws her head back a little, then leans in to sniff his fingers; Newt tickles her under the chin.

Hermann strokes her tail, feeling suddenly and absurdly jealous. For two days, Toca's attention had been solely for him, and seeing it shared _hurts._ No matter how selfish he knows he is being, it's just too familiar- nobody is ever willing to be close to him for long. "Is she well?'

"With you looking after her?" Newt turns that smile on him and the jealousy melts to nothing.

What does it matter if Toca comes to care for Newt as she does Hermann? They are wedded, after all. And Newton- looking at that smile, Hermann can almost believe he will not tire of him.

"She's better than fine;" Newt continues, "she's just a bit precocious; she'll probably want to spend all her time in the library next-"

How much Toca understands- and even after yesterday that's still probably nothing- but her feathers fluff and she looks even a little eager. Hermann smiles and pets her approvingly.

Her tail sweeps against his back, beating a soft rhythm.

 

* * *

 

 

The castle is huge and rambling, an ancient construction of volcanic stone slowly built up over the centuries. Newt takes them to an open tower high at the top of the castle. the wind snatches the breath from their throats and brings the hot smell of dragonfire from a nearby construction.

They lean over the parapet and look out over the great rolling plains, still grey from frost. The nearby clusters of villages and the well-beaten tracks to the walls circling around the base of the hill- the remains of recent markets in the castle grounds. 

It's strange to be in somewhere this _old._ His home in the South was newly built, only two generations ago, and situated far away from the bustling common life he can see below them. The palace had been surrounded by hunting forests, not fields and canals as with here.

This castle is a patchwork of ages, ancient huddled stonework giving way to new glass and iron, the tower they are on is crumbling, the battlements abandoned for defense and turned to a small high garden. But just beside them is the stubby beginning of a new tower, closest to the mountainside. Dragons heave up blocks of stone for the craftspeople to measure and stack, then blast them with flame, melting it into a great, blackened whole.

"What are they building?" Hermann sets Toca down; she flares her wings and beats them in the chill air, the wind filling her wings. It reminds Hermann of the sparrows who had lived outside his windows, when they had grown their flight feathers and took their first tentative flights. She leaves soft prints in the freshly turned earth of the garden, planted and waiting for spring.

Newt leans against the low wall, looking over, "Not sure really, it's one of Illia's ideas- probably more guest quarters," He pulls a face.

Hermann frowns, "But that's important and- you don’t know?" 

Newt rolls his eyes, "Like it matters, so they need to build a new tower, who cares?"

Hermann opens his mouth, uncertain what to say to that, but a hiss from Toca draws his attention. She's rearing up in the stiff wind, wings flaring and flapping, only managing to hop.

Hermann smiles, and kneels down beside her. Toca jumps again, flapping furiously; Newt smiles and trills something to her; she cocks her head to listens, but just hops onto Hermann's lap, and from there tries again to fly.

"Stubborn," Newt shrugs, "She'll have to be about five times that size before she can really fly- she doesn’t have the wingspan yet, and the muscles haven't really grown in."

Hermann strokes Toca as she scrambles up his arm against for altitude, her wings are beautiful, sleek and stiff with flight feathers, but narrow, too narrow for lift in this cold air. His muscles hot and trembling under his fingers- like young birds just after the last frosts before spring. She jumps again, flailing furiously, and hits the dirt.

She shakes herself, nosing out small clods of earth from between her wings, before furling them with a sigh. She looks so dispirited that Hermann- has an idea. It's a foolish, wasteful idea, but- it's just them, and Newt, and the way Toca arches her wings and looks longingly over at the dragons building the far tower- their wings bearing them so easily against the driving wind-

Well.

Hermann holds out his hands, and she scuttles up his arm, her weight almost pulling him over. Newt steadies him, then gets up, obviously thinking they are about to leave-

"Wait." Hermann shuffles himself up until he's kneeling as comfortably as possible. He opens one of Toca’s wings carefully, stroking the soft feathers of the underside, testing her weight. Deciding how much heat she will need, how much _lift._

He has done this before. In the cold mornings before breakfast, in the courtyard outside his room, with the sparrows. He had brought them fruit in summer, seeds and suet in winter, and when the fledglings tried to leave the nest on their first flights-

Toca noses the air from his shoulder, Hermann touches her back, encouraging, and the equations of the spell settle in his mouth, run down his throat, along his arm, rest heavy in his hand. He cups it as Toca sniffs again, spreads her wings. Hermann can feel her claws dig into his shoulder and back as she gathers herself to jump.

Her feathers brush his cheek as she jumps, Hermann snaps his fingers to complete the formula- and fire bursts from his hands.

The heat of the flames hits him hard enough to stun, after the cold of the early winter air-Hermann feels his skin crisp from it, almost burning his eyebrows off as he had as a child. The hot air fills Toca's wings, and she shrieks in delight as the thermals send her spiraling up.

Newt blinks, then laughs. Hermann blushes, a flush of shame overtaking him almost out of instinct. The scorn he had received whenever anyone had seen him casting- even simple little cantrips such as this.

But Newt isn’t laughing at him, his eyes are on Toca as she flaps and glides in place, as Hermann lets the flames burn on the ground, his hands coming up to measure Toca's wingbeat, the flow of hot air keeping her aloft. He changes a component and the fire devours more oxygen, sending her a little higher- although still below the lip of the parapet, and the dangerous cross-winds.

"Was that from the books?" Newt sits down again, and Hermann lets the fire grow wider, Toca circling happily in place.

He shakes his head, "They are- much more powerful, this is just a captrip. I memorised it years ago." Four years ago, it had taken two years to memorise. And then his father had found the book and thrown it out. He smiles, enjoying Newt's admiration "She's enjoying it,"

Toca chirrups, kicking her legs out as though trying to seize prey in midair. She overbalances and one wing drops. Hermann leans forward and Toca manages to lunge forwards enough to land on his back. Hermann gasps, trying to catch his breath at the heavy blow.

“She’s probably going to have to walk soon,” Newt takes his arm and helps him up; Hermann catches his balance, leaning more heavily on his stick to balance this new weight. Toca curls into his neck, even warmer than usual and smelling of flames; she nuzzles him, her tail sweeping out around his chest.

 

* * *

 

 

_Dearest mother,_

Hermann pauses; quill poised above the fine paper, uncertain what to write- how to _start_ -

_I am well_ , he starts finally, it would be the most important point. His mother had been entirely opposed to the match and Hermann had wondered if she too doubted Hermann would survive. _And in good health._

How could he _not_ be? The food here was wonderful, even with all the activity, Hermann was sure he was putting on weight. _I have been kept very busy here, and there is a great deal to learn_.

The castle had swallowed them for days in their exploration; Newt might not know what is going on in his own home, but he knows every room in it by heart. 

They climbed every tower and descended to the grounds to explore the quiet, sleeping greenhouses under their lacework of frost and- lately, powdery snow. The gentle, pruning human gardeners smiles at them, and the dragons slipping about around them and underfoot, warming the rooms, carefully planting new seeds for the spring and chittering in friendly voices to Toca and Newt.

_This place is extraordinary, and there is so much to see;_

The great sleeping quarters in the hillside and cliff-face for the dragons; Kodachi delights at their visit, and welcomes them into his rough cave- Toca sniffs and ignores him haughtily, and Hermann is quiet at the sight of a small, battered bed- close by Kodachi's hoard of roughly polished semi-precious stones- unused for years, but kept close as if in nostalgia.

Hermann looks down at it and thinks about a little seven year old boy, who would have come here knowing no-one but his dragon-child. Newt sees what he has found, and turns away. Hermann says nothing, but comes closer and takes Newt’s hand, tucking it tight against his body. Newton had someone when he came here, but once upon a time this place was as strange and alien to him as it is to Hermann now.

_But I have a very good guide_ ,

The great hall, its mounds of treasure, chill and cold for the week of Newt and Hermann's wedding. Then Newt takes him up to the little tower room above their bedroom, and shows him the _real_ treasure.

Hermann trails his fingers through alien coins- old or far away or both- tiny golden coins from distant Cathay and Nippon, great oxidized copper discs from the ancient tribes who lived in this place. Even green-patterned silver from the south, coins Hermann remembers from collections back home.

And other, less valuable treasure; little arrowheads from before humans learnt to beat iron, an intricately carved piece of wood that Newt says had been a gift from Pentecost, part of a ship's figurehead from the Morninglands across the sea. A piece of green unmelting ice from the sorcerer's guild in the North.

And a tiny dragon’s head, cast in blue smoky crystal which Newt holds longingly before gently tipping into Hermann's hands. "It was from mom, before I left."

"Who is it?" Hermann turns the head this way and that, letting it catch the light, filter through the facets. The details are perfect, down to the smallest scales.

"Don’t know," Newt tucks his legs under him, for a moment like a child sharing secrets. "Mom would probably say it was someone I hadn't met yet." 

Hermann looks into the blue shimmer of the dragon’s unblinking eyes, the faint golden glow of its horns, and feels a flicker of uncertain familiarity.

Newt takes it back, tucks it away, and rolls bodily onto the pile, spreading his arms and roaring. He curls and half-buries himself in the junk and riches, blinking up with such a dragonish air that Hermann can't help it, he laughs.

Newt grins and grabs him, pulling him onto the priceless and rather uncomfortable bed. "And what about you, southern boy," he purrs in his ear, "You walked into a dragon's lair unarmed?" He growls softly, licks his ear.

Hermann shivers; he isn't sure how he feels about this- at once erotic and frightening- then Newt leans over him and kisses him properly, and the fear ebbs away. Hermann’s body thrums eagerly as Newt’s fingers go to the fastenings of his clothes- as he reaches to unknot Newt's clothes, revealing pale, scaleless flesh.

 

* * *

 

Hermann is aware he's absently sucking on his quill, and whips it out, feeling flustered. _I am being very well looked after_ , he continues _, the food here is very good and the people have been_ -

He pauses, they haven't been _kind_ , not exactly- well General Pentecost has, and Mako. But the rest have all been too wary and uncertain of him for that. But there hasn't been any hostility since the first day, and lately-

A marketday at the castle, the people coming for miles to buy and sell; traders from the world over coming with goods Hermann had only ever seen in the southern palaces.

They go down together, and the crowds cheer Newt gladly, but look askance at Hermann- curious and concerned at this alien prince from the southern lands. For the first time in- several days now- Hermann feels the cold, dead feeling of shame and rejection well inside him.

Toca stirs in his arms- she's now so large he needs two hands to hold her, Newt letting him lean on him and holding his staff- she sniffs the air and Hermann is too late to spot the danger. She leaps from his arms, sleek sharp wings cutting the air as she glides a short way, hits the paved marketground, and lunges for the spice peddler's stall.

"Oh blast," Newt groans. The crowd laughs. Hermann hurries forward and tries to pry Toca from the bundles of cinnamon.

The peddler's mouth is open, but no sound comes out- possibly she has never seen two years’ profit disappear in five seconds. Hermann looks at her uncertainly, arms tight around Toca as she tries to squirm free. Back home, in the South, he had never really _met_ the laypeople of his kingdom. It's different here, of course, but he has no idea what to _say_ to one of them. "I- I am sorry-“ He stammers, “You will be reimbursed-"

"Here," Newt hands the peddler a purse, "And you can tell everyone that a member of the royal family could not control herself at the sight of your goods!" Another laugh from the crowd. Toca gives a final twist in his arms, and finally gives up, sticking her head under a wing and sulking.

Newt pulls Hermann close and Hermann sighs in relief, letting Newton take a little of his weight. Toca sticks her head out and croaks curiously at the throng. The crowd cheers, and this time, Hermann feels maybe some of it is for him.

_The people here have been patient,_ he writes finally _, they are unsure of me- and I of them- but they are giving me a chance_. Hermann stops again, looks down hopelessly at the handful of lines he has managed to write. This is going to take all day.

His pen hovers, uncertain how to proceed on the most difficult part of this already excruciating letter. Finally the tip touches the paper, scratching through the edges of Hermann's stiff, spiky hand-

_My husband,_

Newt flits from stall to stall with his guards and servants, picking out jewellery for Hermann, rich bolts of cloth for new clothes for Hermann- "You're the prince,” Newt grins at his protests, "That means I should spoil you. You're my husband, and that means I _definitely_ get to spoil you; here-" He holds up a bolt of glorious blue velvet that takes Hermann's breath away- as much from its beauty as the trembling shock that it is meant for _him_ \- "It's perfect- maybe a robe or a coat?" He hands it to a smiling servant, who makes the necessary calculations.

And the books. Tendo takes charge of most of those from the stalls of booksellers and printers, but Newt and Hermann go in to browse too. They're a small and rough selection compared to the delicate paper and beautiful print of the great southern binders, but Hermann wouldn't trade those beauties for the joy of books he could touch and hold and buy and _keep_. Books of folktales, bestiaries, countries close and far away-

He looks up over the edge of a page, and Newt is looking at him. And smiling.

_My husband has been kind_ , and gods, he cannot help a lump in his throat as he writes those words; had he’d never dared to hope he would be able to write them in truth, _he has been gentle and_ -

Hermann pauses again, trying to think of the best way to describe that terrible first night, the fear so solid he could taste it- and discards the idea, no reason to let his mother know how awful he had felt.

_And I believe he is coming to care for me, and I-_

He closes his eyes, not even wanting to write it yet, in case he is somehow still wrong- being fooled-

_And I am coming to care for him._

He feels the truth of the words when he writes them, the slowly growing fondness in his heart, and the comfort of Newt at his side. They sleep together warm and safe, Newt is at his shoulder, ready to help and comfort or just- be there during the day.

Hermann smiles tremulously, glances towards the door to their room. Newt is out to discuss something with Illia, their council is to open again in two days, and Newt is needed, no matter how much he complained about it to Hermann.

He sighs, and turns back to the letter; _The castle has a satisfactory library, but I would be grateful if you could send me Astrological Calculations by Scalan and Cardan’s Bestiary of Mictlan_?

He pauses, wonders if he should explain why he needed it, and about Toca; but-

He tries to think of Toca, and his mother, and for a moment, all he can see is the banqueting hall on his engagement feast, the little skulls clustered on each table; his mother a still and perfect queenly ideal, looking out over the piles of bones with no expression.

Toca's head would be about that size now.

The thought turns his stomach, and Hermann pushes the letter away; closing his eyes until he can force the thought away. Toca hops on the table and nuzzles his face, and Hermann puts his arms around her.

Her feathers insulate his arms from her scalding skin; she butts her nose against his ear, hisses. He can feel her wings press against his arms, the tight little wingbones sharp against his biceps. She is soft and hard both, with the thick covering of feathers and down, and the solid muscles taut underneath.

He pulls back, Toca leans in and touches her muzzle to his lips, breathes hot and smoky against his mouth. Hermann can’t help but smile, pushing her away and upsetting his inkpot.

In the ensuing chaos, the letter is saved, Hermann's sleeve is ruined, and Toca is splattered with ink.

He gives up on his robe, rubs Toca down and lets her settle in his lap and turns to the letter again. He’d have liked to relate this little anecdote to his mother- it would make her smile, but- He looks down at Toca. She snuffles and blinks up at him, it is impossible to imagine his mother _wouldn't_ love her, but-

No. The memory of the little skulls haunt the edges of his mind- not allowed to intrude further, but just remaining there, making the world just that little bit darker, more wretched.

Toca lifts her head, and he kisses her on the back of the head, feels her crest rise slightly against his lips.

_I have been spending time with the honourable General Pentecost, and his children and wards_ \- he writes instead, feeling uncomfortable at the evasion to his mother; _I have been learning the ways and languages of this kingdom_ ,

And they spend some of every day there, sitting with General Pentecost and his little study group. Trying to parse the rattling growls and snarls of Captain Hansen into something that will even _approach_ coherent speech. Carefully memorizing the far more understandable sigils and glyphs of their written language.

He watches the dull green dragon- Raleigh- carefully scratch symbols into a small sandbox for them to decipher. He tries to ignore the ease with which those claws slide into the sand; their deep, deadly curve and how the accidental glimpse of them makes his leg ache and sweat break out on his back-

Well, his mother doesn’t need to know he spends most of his days with a Moss Dragon. She’s probably worried enough as it is.

Toca looks up at him in concern, her eyes bright. She curls up, her tail brushing against his hip, the solid weight of her sleek, soft body hot and tickling slightly from the tips of her claws.

She lifts her head and gently bumps her muzzle against his shoulder. Hermann turns and strokes her, those huge green eyes, those vivid, gorgeously patterned feathers. She is so beautiful, comforting and sweet and- between her and Newt; the strangeness of this land doesn’t seem so bad, can almost be something he can look forward to, every day.

Toca’s mouth moves in the shapeless motions of the dragon tongue, extends her tongue and struggles to form shapes alien to her- "Heerrrrmmmn" She whines.

Hermann’s mouth opens, his quill dropping nerveless from his fingers and splattering inkblots over the paper. Toca's nostrils flare; she tries again, "Heerrrmannn?"

He smiles, he can’t _help_ it, he smile and smiles and can’t stop; he draws Toca- heavy enough now that it’s a struggle to lift her- and holds her close against his heart. “Toca,” he whispers, presses his face into her soft, ticklish feathers, "Toca, my dear, my _dear_ -"

“Hrrrrmmmmnn,” She sighs, burying her face into his shoulder.

_Excuse the sorry state of this letter, mother; I hope you are well. How is Bastian? I hope Karla is doing well and not taking too many risks. I would like to hear that Dietrich is not working too hard, but I think I know the answer. I know you are worried about me, but you needn't, I am being treated very well, with every courtesy. My husband cares for me, and I am making friends. I will start attending council meetings in two days and am looking forward to it. This is a strange place, but I think I- I think I could be happy here._

_Yours with all my love,_

_Hermann._

 

* * *

  

The opening of the council chamber is done with the greatest pomp and bombast. Hermann’s new blue gown is readied for the occasion- soft and deep plush, warm in the sudden cold snap that has engulfed the castle. He slips on his soft furry boots, has his face lightly painted by the same dragon eyed girl who had dressed him for his wedding. She smiles when he sees him again.

"You are looking good, my lord."

Meaning he looked better than the last time she had seen him. Hermann smiles at her, and closes his eyes to let her work.

His rabbit fur cloak is pinned to his shoulders, and a fine netting of silver and sapphires is strung around his neck and wrists. Finally, his hair is washed and brushed, and a small silver circlet is placed on his head. Silver and moonstones.

And Newt is dressed, once again, in his armor.

It has been oiled and painted again, and when the massive bulk of the dragon helmet swallows Newt's sighing, resigned face, he cannot restrain a shiver of fear.

Then Newt's eyes peer through the eyes of the helmet, and the fear unclenches a little.

Newt's hand, gauntleted and clawed, is in his as they descend, followed by Kodachi and Toca- now large enough that Hermann can no longer carry her, her shoulder now up to his thigh, her head thrust forward, her tail arching behind, fanning glorious feathers into a train. Hermann glances down and she blinks back up at him, smiles, showing neat sharp teeth.

The broad hallway to the council room is lined on each side by courtiers and nobles, ascending in rank as they advance, and when they reach the doors, they are flanked by Illia on one side, and Pentecost on the other. Illia opens the door, and they step in. Behind them, the long line of humans and dragons follow. Kodachi and Toca, Illia and Pentecost; then in pairs, everyone else.

It would be considered appropriate for a minor event in the South, but here, it is the most elaborate ceremony Hermann has seen thus far.

Newt’s grip on his arm changes a bit, becoming more supportive as they approach the climb to his towering throne. Hermann sends him a grateful smile, bracing himself heavily between his staff and Newton's hand, climbing the steep stairs with comparative ease.

There is only the one throne on the top, but on the dais beside it is a soft pile of cushions and pillows, gathered in a slight hollow in the pile of treasure. Hermann lets go of his hand; and Newt sits down on his throne, clasping his hands together impassively, like a great, imposing statue. Kodachi coils around the throne, his head level with Newton's, his tail curled around just under the dais, close enough that Hermann has to mind him when he sits down.

The dais hardly looks comfortable, but the cushions and furs cradle him and someone must have set up the treasure to form a reasonably comfortable hollow. Once installed with Toca's head bleeding heat into his bad leg, Hermann rates it rather more comfortable than the hard little thrones or the endless hours of standing he had endured in the south. With Toca beside him, Newt’s hand gently resting on his shoulder, and Kodachi coiled around them all- he feels surrounded and comforted, protected as the hall slowly fills.

Illia is at the foot of the dais; he waits until the room is full, and glances up at Newt. Hermann hears him sigh, and he waves a hand in assent.

"Let the fires be lit!" His voice echoes in the great, hollow room, rattles off of the rafters and thick glass.

There’s a sigh, and a roar. Twelve dragons; a Moss, a Mountain Blue, a Field Red and others Hermann had never heard of, light twelve great braziers: six on each side of the room. Suddenly, the dark, shadowy room fills with gold and red and flickering light. The chill filtering down from the glass ceiling is cut through by sudden heat and warmth.

Toca raises her head at the display; her crest flat against her neck in dismay. Hermann pulls her head to his chest and strokes her neck soothingly until she calms and settles closer to him.

"Scribes at your places." Illia continues, and Hermann sees part of the floor pulled away- it must be painted wood rather than stone- and reveal four great sandboxes. Eight people- four humans, four dragons; two to a box- come forwards, all holding great barge-like poles.

Illia nods, turns a smile up to them, expectantly. But Newt just nods and waves his hand again, encouraging him to go on. Illia sighs, unsurprised and resigned. He turns back to the crowd. "In stead of the King, I announce this council meeting open."

Hermann glances up at Newt, Newt slumped out of his stiff stance, propping his head on his fist, "Why not open it yourself?" He whispers.

"Because it makes Illia happy," Newt groans, maybe not quite quiet enough, "And this is where it gets _really_ boring."

Hermann looks up at him uncertainly, then settles back with a sigh. Kodachi's tail touches the tip of his foot. Toca is warm around him, her head in his lap as though she too is expecting to be bored. Newt's hand settles on his shoulder, then slowly migrates to the back of his head, carding gently through his hair, the tips of his gauntlet claws scratching just light enough to make him shiver in pleasure.

The formal introductions begin. Newt rises and bows when Illia calls him, and Hermann gets up clumsily just in time when his name is next. It’s somewhat ungainly, but his bow is decent, and Illia nods approvingly. The crowd watches him curiously, but not unfriendly.

Kodachi rises next and inclines his great head. Hermann nudges Toca, but she’s already moving. The crowd's curiosity is, if possible, even more noticeable towards her. She fans her wings approvingly, turns herself to best effect so the light from the windows shimmer from her feathers, the braziers making her glow with a thousand colours.

Newt snorts, and Hermann cannot help but cover a smile. Toca snorts disapprovingly when Illia calls out Pentecost's name and title, and Hermann pulls her back. She hisses in irritation, and Hermann hushes her. Toca snorts, and sighs, curling sulkily in his lap. "You are the most beautiful, of course you are." Hermann comforts her, “But we need to let someone else have a go now.”

Toca growls; and Newt snorts. "Oh be quiet," Hermann murmurs, not sure who he is talking to.

 

* * *

 

 

For the first half hour, Hermann doesn't even try and follow what is going on, letting the words flow over him and only trying to pick out _some_ point of reference in the babble. It seems as though everyone is talking at once- human voices in common and alien tongues, dragons' heavy and hoarse.

It takes a little while of watching Newt, then Illia and Pentecost, before he realises they are not simply looking at the petitioners and speakers- often their eyes trail away to the right, and Hermann notices that the scribes are dashing through the sandboxes at astonishing speed.

Everything is being taken down, in common and a few strange languages that must be local dialects. The scribes write as each speech is made or petition is heard, and equally carefully records the answer. Then when the box is full, the next box along is used; while more scribes armed with pens, ink and rolls of scrolls take down the writings in the first box. Then a broom or tail is swept over the sand to clear it, and the box is ready to be used again.

To the left, the same is happening, only in the dragon tongue. Dragons transcribe their tongue into surprisingly clear common, as humans copy _theirs_ easily into the complicated sigils of the dragon written language. Everyone has an eye on the appropriate box; an account of the day's topics and a way of understanding the roars and snarls of dragon speech.

It's a good way of doing it, Hermann supposes; at least in the written word everything is laid down clearly, and not dependant on hearing sounds too alien for their ears to make out. But at the same time- watching the scribes struggle, red-faced, to get everything down in time, and occasionally stop and squabble over the exact translation of a particular line or sigil- there must be a better way.

Absently, he rolls the worn wood of his staff between his fingers; in his lap Toca lifts her head and blinks.

Newt's hand strokes through his hair again, resting and squeezing gently on his shoulder; glancing back at him, Hermann is close enough to see how utterly _bored_ he looks.

Hermann sighs; Newt doesn't even need the sandboxes, he is the only person in this room who can understand everyone equally, and he's pretending he's somewhere else. Hermann feels a spike of surprising irritation towards his husband- he could at least pretend to be engaged; Illia is doing all the work.

Hermann shrugs the hand off and leans forward, determined to follow what is going on.

It appears to be a row between two groups of humans and dragons. They're all rather unfashionably dressed- although most of this court is a few seasons behind- and look rather like merchants or peasant landowners in their best clothes. But of the two groups, one seems to have a greater amount of thick furs and woolen breeches, whereas the second favor linen and even cotton.

Their dragons are similarly split; they're a mongrel lot, but Hermann recognises a few Blues in the wool and fur group, and Reds and even a Moss in the linen and cotton. They all, human and dragon, look rather angry at each other.

"Who are they?" He leans over to whisper to Newton.

He starts, "Oh, them? You don't want to know." He stifles a yawn.

Hermann frowns, the irritation coming back more strongly, "I do in fact want to know! Who are they, and what do they want?"

"Representatives from the Grasslands communities and the Highland holdings," Newt groans, "And they always want the same thing; Grassland's been holding out on food supplies, Highlands's been holding back on ores. Grassland's been moving into the plateaus, Highland's been stealing cattle-" He lifts his voice in whining mockery and Hermann has to admit, he's capturing the spokespeople's complaining tone quite effectively.

Illia glances up at them sharply, and Hermann elbows Newt in the leg to shut him up, hissing as he bruises his elbow. Illia sighs and turns back, trying to look attentive as the two groups pour their grievances at each other.

"They do this a lot?"

"Every meeting," Newt sighs, "Nothing ever gets resolved."

"Then what's the point?"

Newt shrugged, "There isn't one really, but it all balances out in the end. If Grasslands move too far into the mountains, they get too many of their cattle stolen for it to be profitable; if Highland don't sell ores, they don't get the money to buy food."

Hermann frowns; it's hard to imagine why Illia- or anyone else- would subject themselves to this fisher's quarrel, "But why-"

"Because if they don't get to talk it out," Newt interrupts, "They'll do something about it themselves and we don't get either Grassland's food or Highland's ores. They're not above skirmishing if they're riled up enough. So they come here and complain, Illia gives them a few platitudes, and all of us are bored stiff. They go away happy."

It makes- a certain kind of sense, but he cannot help but wonder how that would go in the south. Father had never had much patience with petitioners- let alone with claims as petty as this.

Finally, the two groups seem to run out of air and simply stand glowering at each other. Illia waves them away, "Thank you for your contributions, all; we will look into the matter further." He is trying to put a brave face on it, but he's clearly exhausted.

The petitioners go back to their places at the sides of the hall, and Newt might have a point, they do look happier, sending each other triumphant glances as though they had somehow won a victory.

"And finally," Illia glances up to the throne and gives Newt and- yes, _Hermann_ \- a smile. "We have the matter of the king's progress to consider."

Oh, Hermann sits up. He should have expected something like this, but he hadn't really considered the possibility before. Even Newt seems the perk up at the announcement.

"Unroll the map," Illia calls and a huge roll of cloth Hermann had assumed was just part of the treasure of the dais is brought out and stretched, revealing a great map of the Northern lands.

It's not a brilliant map- it's clearly been printed rather than painted, and Hermann can see where the different sections don't precisely line up- and there are conspicuous footprints on it where people have been standing, but it is the most- _confident_ map Hermann has ever seen.

Every line is crisp and neat and everything, even the mountains, is laid out in detail. Hermann can't help but lean forwards curiously- he had seen maps of the country before, but apart from the coasts- which had been meticulously mapped, along with everywhere else, by Dawnland traders- everything else was blurry and uncertain.

It's a wild land; the whole country is split northeast to southwest by a great range of mountains, and heavy forests carpet the rest of the west. The north is a mostly icelocked network of small islands, and only the east is marked out with fields and cities- and even that is bordered, on its furthest edge, by the great Barrier mountains.

Hermann can just make out the small dot and script- in human and dragon- marking out their castle, huddling in the Barrier mountain foothills.

Mountains, swamps, forests, ravines and glaciers- it's a harder land than the South, but for the moment Hermann simply wonders how such a land can be mapped with such confidence.

And besides the clarity of the map, there are odd roads on it. Roads that cut straight over perilous peaks or thick swamps without concern, roads that spread out all over the country. They cross the central mountain range over and over and surely even in high summer they must be treacherous-

Newt is smiling and no wonder because the hall is quite a lot emptier- most of the petitioners have left, bowing as they went. Only the nobles and other notables- mayors and burgomasters of the various towns and regions- remain, looking curiously at the map and looking surprisingly hopeful.

"We will aim to begin our route here," Illia points at one of the strange roads going east. "Ideally come early spring, when the winds turn from the north-“

One of the dragons Hermann’s doesn’t know- whose large, dull blue scales and heavy wings and broad tail mark it out as a Mountain blue- leans in, speaking in a strangely soft voice that nevertheless rings through the hall.

Every human but Newt glances at the sandboxes, where the scribes are quickly writing their words out in human and draconic. The dragon script is a lot easier to read with something to compare it to.

_The winds will still be strong, I suggest waiting until mid-spring unless you wish the entourage to be-_ there seems some confusion here- _crushed/killed/flattened_ _against a mountain_.

Illia sighs, “If we wait much longer we won’t finish the progress until after the harvest.”

The dragon sighs and glances at the sandbox to read the words,

_Then at least consider covering the Southern borderlands to begin with_ , the dragon arches a heavy, scaled wing towards the thick forests bordering the Southern lands, _then perhaps the Mountain holdings-_

“And across to the Grasslands,” Illia agrees, “It might allow us to set off earlier, if we avoid the mountains for the first few weeks,”

“Who is that?” Hermann asks, indicating the dragon,

“Majordomo of the Highland Holdings,” Newt sighs, “She’s been pretty nice- I’d have kept a grudge if Illia put _me_ in charge of those squabbling idiots-“

“You _are_ in charge of those squabbling idiots.” Hermann doesn’t mean for it to come out it just- does.

Newt blinks at him, then groans; “Not _you_ as well-“ Hermann elbows his leg as Illia and the Majordomo glance at them.

Hermann smiles and nods, and Newt waves them on. Illia turns back to the map, tracing a route through what appears to be impenetrable forest and- over a wide lake?

“Is there a bridge?” Hermann leans over to Newt; if there is, then this is construction beyond what the south is capable of.

Newt starts, “What?”

Hermann sighs and indicates the lake, “The progress,”

He frowns at Hermann, “What do we need a bridge for?”

This is getting _very irritating_ \- “Are you expecting us to swim?”

Newt stares at him, then covers the mask of his helmet with one clawed hand- “Right. No, we’re not walking or- or whatever you do in the south,” Hermann stiffens, frowns, “We’ll be flying, dragonback, you know.”

Hermann stares at him, for a moment, the words don’t sink in, then-

He’d- heard of this, in the south. There had been tales. People nesting among dragons, even- laying with them, and riding on their backs when they took to the air. Hermann swallows, pushes that thought away. “I can’t ride.” He says instead.

Newt smiles, “That’s fine, I can show you, it’s easy-“

“No, I mean-“ Hermann starts to indicate his leg, and is interrupted by Illia clearing his throat.

“ _Your majesties_ ,” his voice is pointed and Hermann feels his face flush, “We require to know which you would prefer while we are in the Crown,” he indicates the highest peaks in the center of the country, “Highhome,” he points at a cluster of buildings huddled around a mountain castle, “Or the Needles,” a town spread out over a number of very high peaks.

“Illia, you know where we’ll stay,” Newt sighs, but there’s a smile in his voice.

“That’s all very well, but you will be travelling with an entourage,” Illia reminds him patiently, “Where will they stay while you are away?”

Newt doesn’t answer, and Hermann wonders how much attention he’s been paying; the silence stretches. Newt shifts uncomfortably; Hermann glances between Illia and the Majordomo- the Majordomo catches his eye and glances meaningfully towards Highhome.

“Perhaps Highhome?” Hermann suggests, “It appears larger and- better equipped?” he finishes hopefully.

The Majordomo growls and nods, _Perhaps the prince would appreciate the simple charms of the Highlands better from the comforts of my castle than the more- rustic- appeal of the Needles_.

Illia nods and when he looks at Hermann, he isn’t sure that that isn’t- a smile? “And from there we will be at the beginning of summer- a good time to visit Icesea.”

Newt starts from where he’d been slumped in his throne, “Hey, we’ll be able to see the Cabal! Hermann’s a great mage,” he puts a hand on Hermann’s shoulder- who had frozen still.

But no one is looking askance at him; or in scorn or distain. Instead Illia and the Majordomo blink and smile a little uncertainly, and a few are looking at him curiously. “I study some small amount,” Hermann says cautiously.

“You should see his books,” Newt smiles, “We should bring a few copies to them- they’re always complaining about proper royal support-“

“Ahem,” a tall woman is standing arms folded amongst those against the far wall, she is swathed in a heavy dark cloak, with the tail of her pale braid trailing out,

“Apologies, you honour.” Illia gives a small bow- deeper than a duke required, but not enough to indicate an equal- then shoots Newt a cold look.

“We will follow the Border Mountains south,” Illia continues, walking down the length of the map, “gather the necessary supplies for the tourney, and meet with the ambassadors in Tottenlea.” He taps his foot on a town near the mouth of a broad river- one of the border markers between the Northern and Southern Kingdoms.

Then Illia turns to Hermann, “We are still deciding the exact date, but would you be willing to send letters to your- family informing them of this tourney? As our- allies,” and gods, does that look hard to say, “It would be good for them to attend.”

Hermann nods, “Yes,” he cannot bring himself to say more.

The _look_ on Illia’s face, as though he were contemplating serving cockroaches at a feast, or inviting charcoal burners to a ball- although, given the more relaxed attitudes to class here- charcoal burners would probably be far more welcome than Hermann’s family.

His shoulders are still, Newt touches him and squeezes gently. It’s a nice feeling, but Hermann doesn’t say anything, for fear that he’d agree with Illia.

“We will make plans for the tourney nearer to the date, and send the letters to Qin and Mictlan in a few weeks.” Illia finishes and the whole hall seems to breathe a collective sigh of relief- and none deeper than Newt. “Thank you for your attendance,” he bows.

Then, in order from lowest to highest ranking, then all rise and bow. Hermann has to lean heavily on his staff to get up for his, his leg aching from the long hours in one position. Newt at least gets up on cue- he’s probably been waiting for this moment since the audience started, Hermann thinks uncharitably.

“It’ll be great to be out of this place,” Newt stretches as they rise to leave the hall, “and the Crown! It’s incredible, you won’t believe it. Mom’s there, so you’ll get to see her-“

Hermann feels a small thrill of fear in his belly, and reaches down to stroke Toca’s head- he no longer has to lean down for that any more- to steady himself. But- well, if she’s anything like Newt-

_No wonder she didn’t join the court_ , a small voice whispers inside him, but he quashes it. _She must be kind_ he finishes instead.

Then a new fear claws its way up. “I can’t ride.”

“I told you, don’t worry about it.” Newt waves it off, takes his arm to help him down. “I’ll teach you- I think Pentecost is training Mako too, so maybe you can join her-“

“I mean I _can’t_ ,” Hermann hates having to _say_ it, but- “My leg-“

“Oh!” Newt shakes his head, “It’s not like riding a horse- nothing like riding a horse. You’ll be fine- you’ll probably be good at this,” he reaches over and squeezes Hermann’s upper arm, “You’ve got good arms, that’s really important.”

Hermann flexes his shoulders and- yes, all that work compensating for his leg had put more muscle on his upper body. “Will I be riding with you? On Kodachi?”

Toca must have understood this, because she suddenly snorts, her crest flaring; she shakes out her wings dismissively, and flicks her tail. Newt laughs, “Not if she can help it.”

At Hermann’s puzzled look he shrugs, “Look, we can’t tell yet, but if she keeps growing at this rate she’ll be able to fly in three weeks, and carry you in five.” Facing Hermann’s incredulous look, “Hey, you’re lucky- nice comfy seat on all those feathers-“ 

Hermann snorts, he can’t help it. Newt grins, “Come on, let’s find General Pentecost; ask him if we can sit in on Mako’s flying lessons-”


End file.
